


A Love There Is No Cure For

by Mertens



Series: Sonnet 86 [6]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, all other tags would be spoilers, title from the Partridge Family song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-11 14:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 137,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Big changes are coming for Christine Daaé - will she be able to sieze the moment and capture her dreams, or will she be left to think about the way things might have been?





	1. Chapter 1

Christine paced nervously in her dressing room, barely sparing a glance for the mirror as it rolled back silently. 

She continued to pace and wring her hands as Erik watched for a moment. 

“Christine,” he admonished gently. “Don’t tense your shoulders like that.”

She stopped pacing and spun to face him. 

“How could they do this with so little notice?” 

“I know, sweet, I know,” he crooned, coming to stand in front of her. “But stressing over it won’t help.”

He turned her around by the shoulders until her back was to him. 

“You always get so nervous before auditions, yet never before shows - I’ll never understand it,” he chuckled as he rested his hands atop her tense shoulders, kneading his thumbs into the stiff muscles there. 

“The managers really went out on a limb with this one,” she sighed. 

The Opera Populaire had recently hired an eccentric man who was both composer and director to bring his latest opera to their stage, and the very first act of this new director was to call for an in-company audition to be held for his latest show - the performers were in quite a tizzy over it. It seemed this director held little regard for the contracts most of the performers had, and the managers were rather regretting allowing him to do whatever he wished - but they were hoping by the end of it all, the show would be the talk of Paris and beyond. 

“Indeed. And now you, my dear, must go out on a limb of your own.”

She wrinkled her nose. 

“I did so awful at my last audition, Erik. What if I mess this one up too?”

“You have nothing to lose, Christine.”

“He’ll make me a tree in the background!”

“You would make the most lovely tree in existence,” his dark chuckle wrapped around her. 

She met his golden eyes in the vanity mirror before them. It had been months since they danced together and neither one had brought up the topic that had been discussed that night. At this point, she wasn’t certain if they ever would. She let her eyes slide closed as her shoulders relaxed into his touch. 

He loved her. Had there truly been any denying it, even before he had accidentally spoken it? 

“There,” he murmured as the tension released. “Much better.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze again as they both lingered there a moment longer. 

He hadn’t said anything about it again, had barely even treated her any differently afterwards (though, of course, before the dance Erik had taken care to avoid touching her at all - certainly not the case any longer). How long had he felt that way towards her? How long had he been hiding those feelings? It made her heart ache to think about. It was different than how it was with Raoul - she knew Raoul loved her, he had been bold enough to, at the very least, insinuate his feelings if not state them outright. But Erik had never let her know. She doubted he ever would have, either, had she not offered him that kiss. 

“There,” he said again softly, and gave her shoulders one last little squeeze before he reluctantly pulled away from her. 

He cleared his throat and began to pace the room, as though her nervousness had been transferred to him. 

“You’ll sing Elissa’s final solo from Hannibal as your audition piece,” he told her, and she frowned. 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” she fretted. 

“Nonsense, you’re simply nervous. You’ve been working on that piece for some time now, I’m certain you are ready.”

“I don’t want to butcher your lovely song!”

He shook his head. 

“It showcases your voice far better than your current audition pieces, even if you aren’t as comfortable with it as the rest. This is your chance, Christine - this man clearly doesn’t care about hierarchy or contracts, only about the voice. He could make you prima donna, but he’s not going to do so if he can’t hear what you’re capable of.”

She placed a hand on her throat. Prima donna. Could it finally be happening? 

“What if I forget the words like in the last audition?”

He stopped pacing, turning to face her. 

“Christine,” he said gently, his grand plans for her remarkable future that was about to unfold in front of her now melting away to be replaced with care for the still very nervous and not-yet-prima-donna she was. “We’ve been working on that, remember? You’ve been doing wonderfully. If you forget - and I don’t think you will - but if you do, simply sing _anything_, just like we’ve practiced.”

She nodded, thinking of what they had been working on in their lessons. 

“We can do more, if you wish,” he added. “We can do a lesson every day until the audition if that would make you feel better.”

“Yes, please,” she sighed and sank down into her chair. 

The audition was a mere week away. 

He led her down the familiar tunnels to his home, and she tried to let the echoing silence and faint drip of water clear the buzzing thoughts from her mind. 

Once there, he had her sit on the couch and put her feet up on the ottoman while he talked to her about anything other than music or opera to take her mind off of what was making her so nervous. He brought her some tea, and it wasn’t until she had drank the whole cup that he finally rose from his chair and announced it was time for their lesson. 

To her dismay she found he didn’t intend to work on improvisation anymore - they had spent a good few months practicing that skill. Erik would pick a song, then he would pick a particular verse and tell her she could sing anything _but_ the correct words there, and she would have precious few seconds to come up with something to sing there instead. Sometimes she only managed nonsense that hardly fit the rest of the song, but sometimes she managed to work something out that was quite nice. She had come a long way since they had first started, and how when she would get to the missing verse and stall or stutter and Erik, over the pounding of the piano keys (for he certainly wasn’t going to stop playing if she missed her cue) would shout _sing!_ at her until she finally sang whatever case to mind. 

“But Erik-“

He shook his head. 

“With the audition so close, the only thing you need to focus on is the song you’re going to be singing. You already know you can improvise, and if we spend enough time on this song you won’t even have to. 

She frowned. He did have a point, but still the memories of her last audition, of how she had stood on the stage frozen with wide eyes as the music played on without her, they still haunted her. She couldn’t bear it if the same thing were to happen again. But she trusted Erik, so she went along with his advice. 

She scanned over the sheet music and readied herself to sing. Elissa was the female lead from an opera Erik had written, and it was a role he had created with her in mind. As such, it would be music no one had ever heard before, although he had hope that one day it could be performed onstage, a marvelous little show written by an anonymous composer and headlined by Christine. 

She sighed a little as she read the lyrics that she already had memorized, smoothing a hand across the paper. 

The princess Elissa and army general Hannibal fell in love only for Hannibal to have to leave and face an uncertain fate as he continued his duties in far off lands. The song that Christine would be singing would take place just as Hannibal was about to leave, and it always made Christine feel terribly wistful. 

She could still remember quite clearly the conversation they had had when he first showed it to her and she had read the lyrics for her part. 

She’d been sitting on the couch as he sat on the piano bench, anxiously awaiting her opinion on the work. 

“It’s a lovely opera,” she’d said. “But-“

“But?” 

She squirmed a little. 

“Oh, I wish that Hannibal didn’t have to leave her.”

He chuckled. 

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t have the same effect on the audience, my dear. A little tragedy now and then stirs the emotion, does it not?”

She fiddled with papers, looking at Elissa’s final solo again. _Stirred emotion_ was certainly a way of putting it - the story and the music together made her wish for it to have a happier ending than it did. She could picture a dozen ways that it could be changed, that they could spend the rest of their days together! But- that was how it ended. Hannibal had to leave, and Elissa had to stay behind. Christine frowned. Elissa was a princess, which probably meant at some point she’d have to marry a prince from somewhere to secure her kingdom’s future and safety - but the lyrics clearly implied that she would still love Hannibal every day of her life. That thought made it feel like someone was squeezing something deep inside of her. Imagine, to love someone and know that it would never work out...

Perhaps it was childish and naive and unrealistic, and perhaps it belied her twenty three years of age, but she liked stories where everything worked out in the end. 

“But they love each other,” she bordered dangerously close to pouting. “I don’t like that they can’t be together. It’s so sad.”

He had played a few random chords on the piano, refusing to look at her. 

“Love often is,” he had told her, and that funny twisting feeling in her stomach had gotten worse. 

He sat at the piano now, playing for her as she sang that very same song she had been working on memorizing ever since that day he’d first given it to her. He looked sad as he played, she thought. Or perhaps lost in thought. Even still the beautiful melody poured out from his fingers as they traveled across the keys, never missing a note. 

She sought his eye out, but he paid no notice, his gaze falling straight ahead at the wall, unseeing. She placed her hands behind her back to hide how they nervously twisted and picked at each other. 

“_On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free-_“ she closed her own eyes, not able to stand that look of sadness on his face. 

No, not sadness, she thought wryly - _resignation_. 

“_And though it’s clear, though it was always clear, that this was never meant to be, if you happen to remember, stop and think of me_.”

The lyrics were not lost on her. Not anymore. When he had first shown her the song, she hadn’t fully realized what had likely been in his mind when wrote it. Or perhaps she had - perhaps that was what had stuck her as that wistful, uncomfortable longing it created in her. There was certainly no denying it after Valentine’s Day. It been a month or so afterwards, after she _knew_ without doubt that he loved her, that she had realized what - _who_ \- the song was about. 

It was about them. Her and him. 

What a funny thing, really. He had written a song that was a plea from him to her and then had her sing it back to him. 

There was no denying that it was a good song - it was not merely hubris or a twisted lovesickness that caused him to write it, no. As a work it stood on its on own, and of course no one would guess at what had inspired it. 

No one but her. 

Perhaps that was what irked her all the more about it. She could understand if he had written a wish-fulfillment opera in which the two main characters who were madly in love despite everything, even if that would be a little embarrassing to sing for him (she was not aware of a certain other opera, a _Don Juan Triumphant_, not in the least), but this? To write a beautiful love story and then have it end on such a final and melancholy note? When it was supposed to be about the two of them? It irked her to no end. Wasn’t their own ending still unwritten and unknown? And yet he was so certain that they were not meant to be together. She, on the other hand... wasn’t so sure. 

Melancholy feelings aside, she had to admit it was a very lovely song.   
It ended, and the last notes faded away. Erik paused before he turned to her, finally meeting her eye. Some of the cloud of sadness that was hanging over him seemed to lift just a little, and she had to wonder if perhaps there was not a hint of masochistic tendency in someone who would choose to be reminded over and over of the swiftly impending loss of someone they loved. He would have to play this song for her every day, after all. 

“Let’s work on your cadenza,” he said a little distantly, and she nodded. 

She went back above after her lesson that day, but the next day she asked to stay the night, and of course he agreed. 

“You’re quite welcome to stay as long as you wish, although I unfortunately have a prior obligation for this evening. I trust you don’t mind being on your own for a few hours?”

“No,” she shook her head. “That’s fine.”

He was too embarrassed to tell her that his obligation was dinner with Nadir - the first Thursday and third Sunday of each month had been set aside for Nadir to bring a meal for the two of them to share in Box Five, and he knew Nadir would not let him back out of their arrangement so easily, even if it was for Christine. 

He sighed a little as he tried to quickly prepare the gondola for the journey - this was, miraculously, one of the very few times that he would have to leave the blessed presence of her in his house, but regardless of how little it happened, he still hated it. He much rather would have been able to spend as long as he could with her, but- it wouldn’t do to have to Daroga come looking for him. 

He pushed the gondola forward with ferocity, urging it towards its destination with as much strength as he could muster. He wanted as much time around her as he could, and they quicker they reached his house the longer they would be together before he had to leave for dinner. 

Christine wrapped her fingers around the edge of the boat. They were certainly moving fast tonight. Suddenly she heard Erik give a little grunt of pain, and the boat slowed considerably. She turned to look back at him, concerned. 

He was hunched forward, his arms wrapped around himself and his head bowed, seemingly holding his breath. 

“Erik? Are you alright?”

He was silent a moment then gave a short nod. 

“Fine,” he said, but sounded out of breath. 

Her brow knit. 

“Are you sure?”

He poled the gondola forward again, but much slower this time, and she noticed how his hands trembled. 

“I’m sure.”

She turned to face towards again, frowning deeply. He didn’t seem fine at the time, but she watched him closely through their lesson, and he really did act as though nothing were out of the ordinary. 

“There is stew on the stove, whenever you are ready to have some,” he told her as he prepared to leave. “Of course you may go to bed as early as you wish, as well.”

“Thank you,” she nodded and smiled as he patted her arm kindly, and she had already decided that she would stay up however late she had to so that they could talk some more when he returned. 

He paused just a moment in the doorway, taking a long look at her before he headed out. He wanted to remember that little smile of hers always. 

As he stood on the bank of the underground lake he sighed. He felt antsy for just a moment, knowing that once he took the gondola it would incredibly difficult for Christine to make her way back above if he did not come back. He eyed the rope ladder but knew better than to try it, not in his current state. He had barely managed it the last time he’d tried it, and did not want a repeat of that. There was nothing for it - he took the gondola out onto the water. 

Nadir was there in Box Five, smiling and laughing good-naturedly, teasing Erik about how long it had taken him to arrive for dinner, for Erik had indeed arrived nearly half an hour late. 

“I was afraid you weren’t going to come,” he said. “And after I went to the trouble of making those almond cakes you used to love so much back when we were in Persia!”

Erik grit his teeth and said nothing about why he was late, no mention of the heavy tightness in his chest that scared him so, the sudden pounding of his heart as it skipped beats, how he’d break out in a cold sweat when it happened and feel like the room was spinning. He’d taken the journey across the lake extra slow - he wanted to take no chances after the episode when he was ferrying Christine. It was a feeling that lately would often come on with any kind of exertion, and he was not keen on experiencing it. 

He said nothing of all this, merely sat and took one of the little cakes Nadir had made, taking a bite of it. 

“They’re good,” Erik admitted, and Nadir smiled wider. 

“Do you remember that dish I used to make all the time, the one with the saffron rice and the fish?”

Erik raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 

Nadir took the lid off the crock he had brought with him, and a delicious aroma filled the air. 

Erik chuckled. 

“How you don’t remain sick of this dish, I’ll never know,” Erik shook his head. “It seemed you ate this _every day_ back then.”

“When it tastes this good, why bother with anything else?” Nadir grinned. 

Erik raised a glass of wine. 

“You might just have a point there, Daroga.”

Erik’s worries remained in the back of his mind, although he did enjoy the dinner. When it came time to leave, he surprised Nadir by thanking him for cooking. He took his time going across the lake, almost certain that Christine would be asleep by the time he arrived, and he, in turn, was pleasantly surprised to find he was wrong. 

“Christine,” he breathed as he saw her there reclining on the couch. “Sweet, what are you doing up? It’s late.”

Her face turned a little pink as she sat up. 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?” 

She shrugged and looked embarrassed. 

“About anything.”

He laughed lightly, his worry finally melting away as he sat down on the other end of the couch. He had to press down the urge to pull her into his arms and hold her, to bury his face in her hair and simply stay like that forever. She was such sweet perfection, did she even know that? He might not be able to hold her, but he contented himself with a conversation on the couch. How he hoped there would be so many more nights like these ahead of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I had never realized there were two versions of the song “Think of Me”, and I had always heard the version they use in the 2004 movie... I was SO SAD when I finally heard the version where they use the verse “we were never meant to be” D:

Christine stared herself down in her vanity mirror, narrowing her eyes at her reflection. Her pulse was fluttering like bird and her hands felt oddly tingly, but she tried to take a deep breath all the same. The audition was in less than an hour. 

Erik shifted in little chair in the corner of her dressing room, watching her as she tried to settle her nerves. 

“Are you sure you want your hair up like that?” he tilted his head curiously. 

She had recently taken to wearing her long hair pinned up mostly every day, sometimes in elaborate styles and sometimes just a simple twist. He still wasn’t quite used to it, not after years of seeing it simply pulled back in a ribbon. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” she was pulled out of her anxious thoughts. 

“I don’t know, I was just wondering,” he fidgeted a little. 

“It doesn’t look good?” her hands went up to the twist she had pinned it in. 

He eyed it and pressed his lips together. 

“I like it down,” was all he said. 

“But its more sophisticated this way...”

A knowing smile tugged at the corners or her mouth before she continued. 

“Ah, I see it now. You like my hair down because you like to imagine running your fingers through it, don’t you?” she teased him. 

He merely looked at the ceiling and pretended he hadn’t heard her. 

She would be lying to say that it wasn’t something she, too, had imagined on occasion. 

She stepped back from the mirror and smoothed out her skirts. 

“Do you really think I’m ready?” she asked in a small voice. 

Erik sprang up from the chair and came to stand next to her. 

“You’re perfectly ready, and you’re going to do fine,” he said soothingly. “All you have to do is exactly what you’ve been doing every day, Christine.”

She nodded. 

“And you’ll be there watching?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear.”

She took another deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. She turned to Erik and nodded again. 

“I’m ready.”

She only hoped she was right. 

From up in Box Five Erik could see Giry’s daughter was sitting in the front row of the audience, waiting patiently for her friend to perform. She was the only one in the audience, or so Erik thought, until he spied a glance of a figure towards the very back. It was the Daroga, he realized, trying to be inconspicuous. Erik had made mention to him that Christine would be auditioning, that she would be singing an original composition of his own and that she was nervous. He was probably hoping to not be seen by her, lest he accidentally increase her anxiety, but it made Erik feel an odd sensation almost akin to pride that the man still wanted to watch and hear her song, as though he knew that this was a big moment for both Erik and Christine. 

Backstage, Carlotta glared at Christine as they both awaited their turn. Christine tried her best not to make eye contact with her. Carlotta would be singing right after Christine, and neither one was happy about that. 

Christine’s hands were shaking as she walked up on stage. Were the stage lights always so bright? Her eyes glanced up at Box Five, but she couldn’t see anything there besides darkness. Still, she knew her Maestro was there. Her eyes fell to the lone audience member, who grinned and nodded. Christine returned a weak smile. 

The piano started that familiar tune and she took one last deep breath. 

“_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye, remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try_-“

Her eyes went wide. Had she already messed it up? Was it _once in a while_ or _every so often_? Did it even matter? She shook her head a little and pressed on. But- 

Her mind suddenly blanked. She looked up at Box Five, but of course there was no help he could give her from up there. All could she hear in her head was Erik shouting _sing! sing!_ \- but sing _what?_

She swallowed hard and her mind raced. What came next? This was the part of the song where Elissa was telling Hannibal something about the future... something about when they were parted and he was free. 

“_When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me_,” she closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists. 

Erik’s brow creased. These were not the words he had written. 

To her horror she found she couldn’t remember what came next, either. 

“_We- we never said... our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea, but if you can still remember, stop and think of me_,” her voice faltered as she tried to come up with the words, and she blinked hard, trying not to cry. It was only halfway through singing her newly created verse that she remembered what the words should have been, but by then it was far too late. How could she have forgotten the part of the song she hated most? The part where Elissa said they were never meant to be? Christine berated herself over it. She had already forgotten nearly half of the song! 

Erik was bewildered at what was going on before him. Had she truly forgotten that much? He was thankful, at least, that what she was coming up with still managed to fit with the rest of it... even if it did fundamentally change the entire meaning. He couldn’t help but think of when he wrote it, the care he had gone to in choosing each word. He smiled wryly. Had she purposely skipped over that part, the one she had lamented so much when she first read it? Hannibal and Elissa were never meant to be. Erik and Christine were not, either. Did she realize what had inspired the song? He wasn’t certain if she did. Perhaps it was hoping too much to think that she knew, to think that maybe she was aware of what those words truly meant, to hope that there was anything more to her changes than a simple slip of the mind. 

She was nearing the end of the song, and she realized it was her last chance to impress the director. She steadied herself and tried to put her mistakes from her mind. She gave everything she had to her cadenza, pushing her voice as far as she could. Erik was right - she had very little to lose but so much to possibly gain.

She finished the song, pleased with how the last part had turned out, at least. The director nodded and motioned for her to go. As she stepped off the stage, Carlotta brushed past her. 

"Now we show them how it's actully done, hmm?" Carlotta smirked at her. 

Christine sucked in a tremulous breath. She had faltered during her song, she knew it - and it had not been missed by anyone else, apparently. She hurried to the audience and found Meg, who hugged her tightly. 

“You did good,” Meg whispered to her, but Christine didn’t say anything. 

It would be ages before she’d get another chance to audition. She couldn’t believe she’d messed up like that - Erik must be so disappointed in her, and she couldn’t blame him. She was disappointed in herself. 

Carlotta was droning on onstage, and Christine tried to tune it out. She was singing wonderfully, of course. She’d get the role of prima donna, of course. How could she not? 

Christine didn’t dare look up at Box Five lest Meg follow her eye. She was dreading seeing Erik, anyway. He wouldn’t be mad at her, he wouldn’t shout at her or berate her. He’d be gentle, surely, and kind about what had happened... But she’d see that look in his eyes, that one that said he knew she could have done better, and she wouldn’t be able to stand it. 

She sighed against Meg’s shoulder. What if she never became a prima donna? What if she simply couldn’t cut it at the auditions? 

As she waited for everyone to be done singing, she let her mind replay what had happened onstage. She had changed quite a bit of the words. Going over it in her head - for _of course_ now that it was all over she had perfect recall of what the correct words were - she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her. Was it nerves? Was it self-sabotaging? Was it, perhaps, a slip of her subconscious mind rebelling against the ending Erik had written for them? 

Erik watched the two girls in the audience. Christine was clearly upset about what had happened, but really it had gone better than her last audition - though he supposed that wasn’t saying very much. Still, he was sad that she was sad, and he wished that he could comfort her in some way. He couldn’t very well do that with the Giry girl next to her - he would have to wait until later. 

He was peeved at every single other performer that dared to take up time in the audition, delaying when he could finally speak with his student. At last they reached the end, and he frowned down at the director who was sorting through notes and folding some into little envelopes. He then called out names one by one and gave them each an envelope. It took Erik a moment of watching to realize that he had written the roles he was casting them in on the notes inside. 

Christine watched nervously as he called each singer up and gave them an envelope - but why was she nervous? She already knew she wasn’t getting a good part after that. She smiled wryly. She could just see what was written in her note already - Large Background Tree Number 4. 

“Daaé?” the director called. 

She ran up to take the envelope from him. He gave nothing away as he casually glanced at her before looking back at his notes. 

She bit her lip and fiddled with the envelope as she made her way back to Meg. Inside that envelope was her future, and she was frightened to open it. 

But open it she must, and so she did. 

Erik held his breath, watching the expression on her face. 

She was frowning in concentration at first, trying to open it, and then again as she read it. But then her expression turned to disbelief, and then to pure joy. She shrieked a little and threw her arms around Meg, laughing. When she pulled back she held up the note, and Meg clapped her hands over her mouth as she read what was on the page. She jumped up and down a little. 

Erik stood up. Had it happened? Had it really happened? 

He scanned the stage for Carlotta, but she was nowhere to be seen. Was she off pouting or was she merely backstage? 

He smoothed his hair back, his heart racing. He still couldn’t go to her just yet - he’d have to wait for her to come to him. 

Christine Daaé, prima donna of the Opera Populaire. 

She hugged Meg tightly one last time, both of them beaming. She squeezed her hands and laughed, and the two shared a few words he couldn’t hear. Then she was turning and nearly running off. 

It wasn’t long before she reached Box Five, and Erik quickly opened the door for her. 

“Well?” he asked, throat dry. 

A smile was already forming on his face, her happiness contagious. 

“I did it, Erik - I did it!” she held the note out to him. 

“Oh, Christine,” he reached for the note. “Congratulations, dearest, I knew you could do it!”

She nodded eagerly. 

“I can’t believe it! Understudy to La Carlotta!”

Everything in Erik’s mind came to a screeching halt. Understudy? 

He looked down at the note in his hand, and the words written there confirmed what she had said. Understudy. 

His smile disappeared. 

“Understudy?” he asked flatly. 

She nodded, grinning. 

“Can you believe it?”

He looked at her uncertainly. No, he couldn’t believe it, but not in the way she was assuming. 

He handed her the note back. She’d want to keep it, no doubt. He wanted to rage at the injustice of it all, but she looked so happy with the outcome. He tried a smile, for her sake. 

“You changed the song,” he said finally. 

She blushed. 

“I had to,” she said, and he nodded a little. 

“Because you forgot the words?” the question sounded stupid to him even as it left his mouth. 

She smiled, embarrassed. 

“Yes... Again, it seems.”

Of course. It wasn’t as though she’d changed it on purpose. Sometimes he questioned his own vast intellect, especially when it came to emotions. 

“You’ll have to be careful not to get a complex about auditions,” he smiled wryly. 

She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining as she looked up at him. 

She couldn’t contain her excitement. All of her hard work was paying off - and she had Erik to thank for that. Erik who had so tirelessly crafted her voice and listened to her fears and anxieties about auditions, who always knew when to push her and when to soothe her. They were standing on the edge of everything they had both worked towards for so long, and it was dizzying to wrap her mind around it. 

Before she could second guess herself, she propelled herself forwards and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. 

“Thank you, Erik,” she said gratefully. 

She pulled back quickly when she realized he wasn’t returning the embrace. Her face ached from smiling so much. 

Erik’s mind could barely keep up with had happened, and by the time he realized she was hugging him, she had already pulled back and was grinning up at him again. 

“Of course, my dear,” he said distantly. 

He cursed his slow mind for not realizing what was happening sooner - but really, it was the director’s fault for giving her understudy work and infuriating him so much that he could scarcely tell what was going on around him. It was entirely the director’s fault that he had missed out on hugging her, and he added it to the list of the man’s terrible sins and crimes against the two of them and the art of opera. 

“Oh, I can’t believe it,” she sighed happily. “We’ll work on the songs from the show in our next lesson, won’t we?”

“Yes, certainly,” he agreed. “We’ll start right away. Perhaps the director will change his mind during rehearsals when he sees how much better you are than that- that woman, hmm?”

She laughed and shook her head, but he was only half joking. 

“I’ll see you soon, Angel,” she promised him fondly as she took her leave. 

“Soon,” he echoed and nodded. 

She was about to go out the door when he stopped her. 

“Christine-“

She paused, looking back. 

“I am so proud of you, my dear, and how hard you’ve worked all this time. Always remember that.”

Her throat and heart felt like someone was squeezing them both. 

“Thank you, Erik, I-“ the words faltered and died on her tongue and she swallowed them down again. 

Love was such a tricky thing, wasn’t it? Who could tell the difference one kind and another? 

“I appreciate you,” she settled on saying before slipping out the door. 

She ducked her head as she walked the deserted hallways back to her dormitory, and recalled for the hundredth time her many secret conversations with Sorelli. 

_Never confuse gratefulness with love, Christine,_ she had told her. _And sometimes you’ll love what someone represents, but that doesn’t mean you love the actual person._

It confused Christine, sometimes. Who wouldn’t be enamored with that amount of genius? With being so well-read and so talented at music? Surely that was all it was... wasn’t it? And of course she was grateful to him! How could she not be? It was a crush, at most. Sorelli said it was normal to feel a little crush on one’s teachers at times, though she had warned her to be wary about a teacher taking advantage of that. She could admit it to herself, thought it made her face burn just to think of it - she had a crush on Erik. 

But crushes pass. It would pass, surely. Crushes always passed, and the fact that these feelings had lingered for three years (or more) was _completely irrelevant_. 

She closed the door to her dormitory room and fell across her bed, holding the note up above her and reading it over and over. She pressed it to her heart and closed her eyes. 

Why hadn’t Erik hugged her? She let her mind replay the scene over again, then once more, but this time with different details. 

She’d thank him and hug him just the same, but this time he would hug her too. He’d pull her close, enveloping her. Maybe he’d be so excited over the news that he’d pick her up and spin them in a little circle... He’d tell her how proud he was of her, just as he had, except this time when he did so she’d still be in his embrace. She’d shiver as he whispered those words right next to her ear, his breath warm and contrasting his presumably cold skin as he nuzzled his face to her neck... He’d pull back just enough to kiss her full on the lips as he pressed tightly her to his body and- 

Her eyes flew open and she sucked in a breath. 

It was only a crush. 

Erik had left Box Five right after Christine had. He returned to his home, intending to find something to do, but found he couldn’t focus on much of anything. It had been difficult to not let Christine see how disappointed he was - he hadn’t wanted her to think that he could ever be disappointed in _her_. No, it was that fool of a director he was disappointed in. It was all of life’s circumstances he was disappointed in. But he could never be disappointed by _her_. 

She had done so well! Not perfect, not even he could say that, but she had done exceptionally well all things considered. He was pleased, to a degree, that the man had seen the potential there, pleased that he had considered her for the lead, but- 

_understudy_

The mocking word still rang in his ears as he paced his house. 

_understudy_

Christine seemed happy enough with it, but he was furious. From a rational standpoint he could understand it, but- 

She always did better in performance than in audition, and it didn’t seem fair that a little bobble should bar her from a role she was fully capable of performing. When the last time La Carlotta needed an understudy? He’d never seen her take a day off. 

Christine was still at the start of her career, it wouldn’t make much difference to her if she had to understudy for a few seasons before landing a leading role - but Erik was feeling the press of time. He might not have another few seasons left, he might not even see the end of _this_ season. Was it so wrong to want to see his beloved student achieve her dreams before he was gone? Perhaps there might have to be an accident - just a very small one, nothing terrible or permanent - that would necessitate the use of an understudy... Christine had been adamant that he not interfere in such matters to advance her career, but surely she could forgive a selfish old man’s dying wish? 

He just wanted to see her as prima donna before he went. 

He grabbed a plate off the kitchen counter and hurled it against the wall. It shattered and he huffed angrily. Life had denied him so very much for some five or so decades, would it now take the one last joy he had left? She was on the verge of becoming everything he knew she could be, and yet _now_ was when he had to decline in health? Could he not just see her play the lead in one show?

He sank to his knees on the cold tile floor and hung his head in his hands, sobbing.


	3. Chapter 3

“What’s this great news you have to tell me, Lotte?” Raoul asked. 

She smiled. She had sent him a very vague telegram in which she had told him they must meet to discuss an important development. 

“They’ve made me understudy to Carlotta!”

“Christine!”

He threw his arms around her, hugging her close. 

“Oh, Christine! Congratulations!”

She closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace. This was more like what she had wanted with Erik. 

“This is so exciting!” he pulled back from. “We have to celebrate!”

And that was how they ended up on the patio of a cafe eating cake and drinking champagne. Raoul seemed just as excited about it as she did, and that made her feel happy. She knew understudy wasn’t quite the same as actually being the leading lady - but it was the first step towards that, and certainly a big step. She was closer to her dream than ever before. 

They took a walk down the avenue after that, browsing the store windows and talking of the various roles she hoped to play in the future. They stopped to rest underneath of a great tree, it’s many leaves shading them from the sun and providing a bit a privacy. It was nice to simply lean against the large trunk and listen to the rustle of its branches for a while. 

“Do you think you’ll go to Perros?” Raoul asked after they were silent for a moment. 

She thought about it. 

She made the trip to Perros to visit her father’s grave every year on the anniversary of his death, and she made extra trips on special occasions, such as when she had gotten accepted into the Conservatoire... And when the Angel had finally appeared. She knew her Papa wasn’t there, not really, and she could talk to him from anywhere if she wished, but it felt more reverent somehow to speak to him at his grave. Landing a prestigious role like this one was certainly something she would want to tell him - he had wanted nothing more than for her to achieve her dreams. 

“Yes,” she said eventually. “I suppose I will, soon.”

“He would be so proud of you, Christine,” he said softly. “So proud.”

She pressed her lips together and blinked hard. He was right, and she wished dearly that he was here to see her up on stage. 

“Thank you, Raoul,” she said, glancing over at him. 

Raoul placed a hand on her shoulder before leaning in to kiss to her lips. 

She demurely ducked her head, and he interpreted her signal correctly - she did not want to be kissed. He pulled back and pretended he had not been about to kiss her, a little embarrassed. He straightened his cravat and mentally kicked himself. 

She knew he would likely presume that she had turned away because she was still consumed with the thought of her departed father at that moment, and perhaps there was a little truth in that. But she couldn’t deny that lately she just... didn’t want him to kiss her like that. A kiss on the hand was politeness, and a kiss on the cheek was no more than she might do with Meg, but on the lips - even if his tongue resolutely stayed in his own mouth where it belonged - just seemed too much, somehow. 

Her own feelings on the matter annoyed her. She had used to enjoy kissing him like that - she had enjoyed it _a lot_. What had changed? This was just a phase, surely, and one day she might enjoy it again. But... 

She knew he wanted her to be his wife. He deserved more than a wife who often didn’t want him to kiss her. She couldn’t even say why she didn’t want to be kissed - there was no accounting for it, really, except it just somehow felt wrong. Surely that feeling would pass - wouldn’t it? Or was it the other way around? What if the enjoyment that came with those kisses was the feeling that was fleeting, and this was how she really felt? 

“I don’t know about you,” she said presently. “But I could do with some tea.”

They left the tree and went in search of another cafe. After their tea, she told him she needed to head back to the opera house. He walked her back, and when they reached the front of the building, she stopped him. 

Her hand squeezed his arm a little and she took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She leaned up on her toes and kissed his lips, lingering. 

A wife had to get used to such things, didn’t she? 

When she finally broke the kiss she had to stop herself from frowning. Raoul, however, smiled wide. He brought a hand up to cradle the side of her face. 

“I love you,” he breathed. 

She couldn’t explain the sinking feeling in her stomach, the dread that took up residence in her chest at those words. 

She managed a little smile for him before bidding him farewell and turning towards the opera house. There was surely something wrong with her, she thought, that she felt that way over being loved. 

When had her feelings towards him changed like this? She couldn’t put her finger on it. All she knew was that they had. She frowned, hard. Should she tell him? Did she need to? She had already made it clear that their relationship was casual at most. But what if her feelings changed again? She did love him, in her way. He was quite dear to her, even if she didn’t feel those same longings that she felt for E-

Even if she didn’t feel longings towards him, she loved him. Maybe not as a wife, but as a friend. 

Would that be enough? Would she always have to feel that sinking dread when she kissed him, when she had to go to him as his wife? She loved him once, she might learn to love him again. She resolved to say nothing for the time being. There was no rush, no time limit she had to choose by. She might change her mind. 

Raoul felt like he was floating on a cloud the rest of the day. He made his way back to the de Chagny mansion, and the entire time in the carriage he was thinking of all the possibilities that were opening up for Christine now. He couldn't help but think, also, about all the times she had made mention that she would not be interested in any sort of relationship until after she was prima donna… Well, she was practically prima donna now. He didn't _expect_ anything now, but- he could hope, couldn't he? 

He hoped one day they could be more than what they were. He knew she wasn't ready now, but that was okay. He was a patient man. She _had_ pulled away from him today, too, but that was also okay. One couldn't expect someone to always want to be kissed, now could they? 

He was already making plans for what they'd do after she was prima donna, after they were married. He'd buy a box seat at the opera, of course - maybe one of the ones right next to the stage, so he could have the best view of his wife as she performed. She'd certainly want to keep performing, and he didn't see a reason why she should stop just because they were married. He'd bring flowers to her after each performance, and they'd go out to dinner afterwards. 

He passed by Philippe in the drawing room, who looked up from his newspaper as Raoul walked by. 

"You look rather pleased about something," he remarked. 

Raoul hesitated. He was positively bursting to tell someone the good news, but he did tend to fight with his brother over matters with Christine. But things had been fairly smooth between them lately, so he risked it. 

"Christine landed an understudy role for the position of prima donna."

Philippe looked up form his newspaper, taking a moment to fully grasp the significance of the statement. 

"Is that so?"

He nodded. 

"It's good to be happy when things go well for a friend," Philippe muttered, looking back at his paper again.

Raoul bristled just a little. _Friend_.

"I might ask her to court me, once she's been promoted fully and settles into the role," he insisted. 

Philippe sighed deeply and put the paper down, giving up on reading any more of it. 

"What makes you think she'll agree to that?"

Raoul frowned. 

"Well why wouldn't she?"

“She has her career, that’s why,” he shrugged. “You really think she’ll pick you over that? Even I can see how much she loves singing.”

Raoul blinked several times, trying to ignore the sting in his eyes. 

“She doesn’t have to pick,” his voice wavered. “She can have both.”

“And what happens if you get her with child? You think she’ll still be able to sing after that?” he shook his head. “She’ll hate you for that, for taking music away from her like that.”

Raoul squirmed. Philippe was right. 

“We- we don’t have to get married right away. We can wait. We’ll court until she’s... done with singing,” his words fell flatly. 

Christine Daaé would not ever be ‘done with singing’, and they both knew that. 

Philippe sighed again. 

“I love her,” Raoul said stubbornly. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”

He paused. 

“I can ask her, at least,” he added softly. 

Philippe picked up his newspaper again, opening it once more. 

Raoul went out with Christine the day after as well, but he couldn’t shake the echo of his brother’s words. But none of that mattered, did it? If they loved each other, they would find a way to work it out, he was certain. 

It was a beautiful afternoon. Christine loved how warm the sun felt on her face, how blue the sky was. She was still feeling joyful over the casting news, she was out with her dear friend, and she was staying with Erik the next day. She didn’t think anything could ruin the day. 

Until they stopped in front of the jewelry store window. 

Her smile froze on her face and her eyes darted to Raoul, who was staring intently at the rings on display. 

He pointed to them. 

“Look at that one, Lotte,” he said. 

She looked. It was a fine enough ring, she supposed. If one was interested in that sort of thing. 

“Do you like that shape?”

She frowned at the little diamond in the shape of a rectangle. There was nothing wrong with it, really - in fact it was rather charming. No, there was nothing wrong with it... Besides what it symbolized. She wasn’t ready for that. 

“It’s alright,” she said agreeably. 

His brow furrowed and he bit his lip. 

“This one?” he pointed to a round one. 

She laughed a little. 

“I can’t say, really. They’re all about the same to me.”

“This one would look lovely on you,” he motioned to an oval shape. 

She laughed again, a little nervously. 

“It’ll have to look lovely on me in the distant future, then,” she tittered. “You know I’m not getting married till after I’m prima donna!”

“You’re almost prima donna!”

“Almost isn’t real, Raoul!”

He ducked his head sheepishly. 

“I’m getting ahead of ourselves, I know,” he said. 

“Yes, by quite a lot, I should think,” she kept her voice teasing, masking the anxious flutter of her heart in her throat. 

“Forgive me,” he still stared at the rings, his voice turning sad. 

What was he doing? He could still remember her making her feelings on the matter quite clear. But even so the conversation with Philippe taunted him and mocked him and he had felt the sudden urge to confirm to himself that she _did_ love him, that this _would_ happen, and that Philippe had no idea what he was talking about. 

She shook her head and took his arm, leading him away from the shopfront. 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Raoul,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”

Her anxiety left, and left her with only a vague sadness instead. She pushed that away and looked up at the sky, trying to recapture the feelings from just before they had seen the rings. 

His heart was so very dear to her, she couldn’t bear to hurt it any way. He truly was one of her dearest friends, but she was afraid he wasn’t much more past that. Still, how could she tell him that without breaking his heart? He clearly wanted more with her. 

They didn’t discuss the rings again, or anything about the future or weddings or being prima donna, and the afternoon went wonderfully. She enjoyed her time with him, as she always did. 

When they parted for the day, he merely squeezed her hand and smiled tenderly at her, and she felt her heart twist. He was so galant, and that was problem. If he were a boorish, entitled brat she could easily dismiss him and send him off. But he wasn’t. He was kind and sweet and funny and gentle... She sighed as she walked the long hallways of the opera house. 

That strange sensation of there being something wrong with her had returned. Who wouldn’t love Raoul? Who wouldn’t want a future with him? There was nothing wrong with him, no flaw that she could find. His situation with his family was unfortunate, and of course there was the problem with his expeditions to be considered, but those could be worked through with enough time and understanding and compromise on both sides. No, there was something lacking in _her_. 

Once the lovely afternoon was over and she was away from his company, her mood slipped quite terribly, and it lingered around her like a cloud. 

It was still there the next day, too, when she met Erik in her dressing room. She didn’t say very much past a greeting and an affirmative nod when he asked if she was ready to go. 

Erik glanced at her every now and then as they made their way down. She had promised a few days ago that when she came for her lesson she’d spend the night as well, and he was worried that perhaps she was changing her mind. He wouldn’t try to insist she stay, but he would be disappointed if she didn’t - he had been looking forward to this since the last time she had stayed. She was so awfully quiet, and it made him uneasy. 

“Are you looking forward to rehearsal?” he tried. 

She nodded. He waited for any sort of a verbal reply, but there was none. 

“It’s a very big step - you’ll be doing just as much work as the prima donna herself, you know.”

She grimaced at his words, thinking of how each step closer to prima donna very likely brought her one step closer to breaking her poor Raoul’s heart. 

He lapsed into silence as they came upon the lake, taking his time to steer them carefully and slowly, not wanting to exert himself. He fervently hoped that if he just took everything easy enough, the pains in his chest wouldn’t bother him anymore - they were, after all, often brought on by bouts of activity. 

Once inside he took her to the sitting room and began to ready the piano, pulling out some sheet music they would be working from. 

“Stand just there, Christine, and I’ll start us off with the second song of the first act, and then we’ll-“

“Erik,” she cut him off, looking down at her feet as she twisted her hands. “Do you mind terribly if we do our lesson tomorrow instead?”

He paused a moment. 

“Not at all, Christine, we can do anything you like. Is there something wrong?”

She shrugged a little. 

“I just don’t feel like singing today, that’s all.”

She glanced up at him before looking away again. 

“You aren’t upset with me, are you?” she asked in a small voice. 

“No! No, not at all. I have work I need to finish, but I can do that tonight instead of tomorrow, that’s all right.”

She sat down on the couch. he didn’t move from the piano bench, shifting on it nervously. 

“Did- did Erik do something to make Christine not want to sing?” he finally asked. 

She looked surprised. 

“Oh, no, it’s not like that, Erik! It’s just- it’s something else. I don’t feel I can give you my best voice right now, and you deserve the very best, you see.”

“Alright,” he nodded a little. “If that’s what you prefer, my dear.”

“What work do you have?” she asked curiously. 

“Some revisions on a blueprint that a customer didn’t like,” he waved a hand and rolled his eyes, and she smiled for the first time that day. 

He had gotten a job designing houses for a company that produced custom homes, and Christine was terribly proud of him. It was an unusual setup, with most of the correspondence between himself and his employer occurring through the mail, but he would on occasion meet with his boss in person. The man accepted his story of a masonry accident and was very polite about his mask, and the salary he provided to Erik far exceeded what he earned as the Ghost. 

“Madness,” Christine teased, shaking her head. 

“I must say I am inclined to agree, my dear,” he raised an eyebrow. “But, alas! They requested changes, so they shall receive them... Even if they are _hideous_.”

She giggled at his words as he stood and made his way to the door, then sighed a little as he left, her melancholy returning. She stayed on the couch a little while before deciding she could use a snack. 

Erik’s kitchen was immaculate as always. Her lips tugged into a reluctant smile. He always went into such a cleaning frenzy before she came over, or at least it seemed that way to her - she had never heard of a bachelor keeping such a tidy house. 

She opened the cupboard to pull out a plate, only to find it empty. How odd. She looked in another, and then another, but there were no plates or dishes to found at all. She glanced in the sink, but there were none there, either. She put her hands on her hips and looked around. Where on earth could they all be? 

She knocked on the doorframe to Erik’s workroom. The door itself was open, but she didn’t wish to barge in. 

“Yes, Christine?” he asked from his table. 

“I was going to get a little something to eat, but I can’t find a plate.”

He spun around in his chair, eyes wide, and studied her for a moment. 

“Are there not any?” he asked innocently, as though he himself had not smashed every last one in a fit of mortality induced rage. 

She shook her head.

“That won’t do at all,” he tutted, and rose from his chair. “Let’s find you something, hmm?”

He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he entered the kitchen, glad that he had swept the floor so well - he would never forgive himself if he had left a careless piece of broken glass or ceramic lying about where Christine might accidentally hurt herself on it! All of his plates were in pieces, pieces he had meticulously collected the next day and thrown to the bottom of the underground lake, but dear Christine did not need to know that. 

He scowled as he searched his cupboards, suddenly remembering that most of his cups and glasses had also been lost in his fit. He stared directly, unblinkingly, at the empty cupboard as it seemed to stare back at him. He could feel Christine’s confused and searching gaze boring into him from where she stood next to him. 

“How odd indeed,” he managed through a dry throat, and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

But then he remembered - the teacups. The one breakable item that had escaped unscathed. She often used teacups when she was there, far more than other kind of cup or glass, and he could not find it within him to destroy something that was so intimately acquainted with her lips - especially not when that very same object happened to touch his own lips as well. 

“Ah,” he said, pulling one out of the top shelf. “I’m afraid that this is all that’s left.”

He handed her the teacup apologetically. 

“Erik, what happened to all your plates?”

He held his breath. 

“There- there was an accident.”

She fiddled with cup as she eyed him carefully and decided not to press the matter. He was so odd sometimes. Occasionally she thought it better not to know. Instead she opened the canister of crackers he kept on his counter and put some in the cup, merely saying “Oh, I see.”

He finally exhaled when he realized she wasn’t going to ask anything more. 

There had been an accident, all right - fifty years ago a young woman had given birth to a monster and now in a roundabout way poor Christine was having to pay for that accident by eating crackers out of a teacup. 

She didn’t seem to mind too terribly, standing there at the counter and delicately picking them out of the cup before eating them, but Erik felt guilty nonetheless. He slunk out the kitchen and back to his work, where he spent the rest of the afternoon. 

It wasn’t until evening that he ventured out from his workroom, glancing in on Christine. What he saw there caused him to do a double take. 

She looked so sad. She had her legs curled underneath of her and her arms around a pillow, hugging it tightly to herself. Her gaze was aimed at the fireplace, but it was unfocused and mournful. 

“Sweet, what’s wrong?” Erik settled himself on the couch next to Christine. “You know I don’t mind having you here for any reason, but you look upset.”

Christine sighed and hugged the pillow a little tighter. 

“I just have a lot on my mind,” she said softly. 

“Oh?”

“I just- I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

She scrunched her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. Erik placed a tentative hand on her back, and she leaned into him. 

“I think Raoul wants to propose to me,” the tears she was trying so hard to hide from her eyes showed up in her voice. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

He brushed a curl behind her ear with single, cold finger. 

“You’ll marry the vicomte,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “He’ll propose, and you’ll get married, and you’ll be happy.”

She opened her eyes, looking up at his warm gaze on her face. 

How could he say that so easily? 

“What if I don’t want to marry the vicomte?” she whispered. “What if that’s not going to make happy?”

“Well, you don’t have to marry him just because he asks. You can stay single, if that’s what makes you happy. You don’t have to marry anyone at all, if that’s what you prefer.”

She frowned even as he let his finger trace her jawline in a delicate motion. 

“But I think the boy could make you happy,” he continued quietly. “And you deserve to be happy, Christine.”

She sighed again. Did he really think those were her only two options? Raoul or staying single? Did he not even consider himself in the running for her affections?

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she sniffed, and scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

He let his arms go around her carefully, stroking her hair. 

“I know you don’t, Christine,” he murmured. “You’re a very sweet young woman, and you don’t want to hurt anyone. But Christine - you cannot light yourself on fire to keep others warm. If a life with the boy won’t make you happy, don’t agree to it just because you don’t want to upset him.”

She closed her eyes again, wanting to simply get lost in the feeling of his gentle embrace and not have to worry about anything up above. They were both quiet for a few moments. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this, Christine,” he said quietly. “And I know it doesn’t seem like a big issue right now, but the boy could provide a good life for you - a stable life. And being well taken care of is a big part of happiness.”

She nodded against the fabric of his jacket. 

“Money isn’t everything, though,” she whispered. 

He made a little noise of agreement, but neither dared to voice the word they were both thinking of. 

He hugged her a little tighter, but made sure to keep it light enough enough that she could pull away if she wished. He took one of the hands that he had splayed across her shoulder and moved it down, gently scratching her back with the tips of his fingers until he felt the tension in her body ease away. 

“I don’t think I love him in the way he wants me to, and I think that’s going to crush him,” she finally said. 

“If you don’t love him, then you don’t love him,” he said simply. “He surely can’t fault you for that.”

She glanced up at him, at that small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and she knew that he was speaking from experience. 

She nestled closer to him and could feel the hitch in his breath as she did so. 

What was love, anyway? She did love Raoul, and she did enjoy their more intimate moments - _mostly_. Was that the most she could hope for? Would he be satisfied with that from his wife? A friend who sometimes was something more? _She_ certainly wanted more - surely he would too. 

Could she picture forever with Raoul? She supposed she could, but she could also foresee a time that perhaps they would no longer feel the same about each other than the way they did now. How many years had they known each other, had they continued on as they had with secret kisses and frequent embraces, and yet still she didn’t feel that all-consuming passion towards him? If it hadn’t happened by now, she doubted it ever would. 

What was passion, anyway? 

She let one of her hands slid down from Erik’s shoulder, across his collarbone, over his chest. Her heart beat faster. His clothes were always well-tailored, so it was often impossible to tell, but he was far thinner actually looked, and she could feel the faint outline of bones underneath of fabric and muscle. 

She could scarcely dare to admit it to herself, but moments like this with Erik stirred more passion in her than anything she’d done with Raoul. Did that make her defective somehow? It made no sense at all to feel that kind of desire with someone like Erik, disfigured and old, and yet to not feel it with someone like Raoul, young and handsome and strong. Was she wrong to feel those things? Was she wrong to _want_ to feel those things towards her husband? 

Perhaps she was being selfish and hedonistic. Wives in polite society did not feel those kinds of things... It was only because of dressing room gossip that she knew as much as she did about... things. Proper ladies did not concern themselves with such matters, but there precious few proper ladies to be found at the Populaire. Was it ridiculous of her to expect a marriage to include that kind of passion that the other girls talked about backstage? 

She didn’t know. All that she knew for certain was while she loved both Raoul and Erik, it was the latter who most often made her feel this way. Did he feel that way around her too?

She leaned a little closer to him, her hand traveling just a little lower, her thumb pressing just a little firmer as she traced down his breastbone, and suddenly he stood up. 

She looked up, surprised. He took both of her hands in his own. 

“Would Christine like some tea? Or some juice, perhaps?” he licked his dry lips anxiously. 

He would have been quite content to let her wandering hand continue on its chosen path, but she had been so awfully close to leaning against his lap. 

Sweet Christine was too innocent to realize the way her touches could affect him, and he would have been mortified if she had leaned a little closer and felt the evidence of that. 

Even standing he tried to stoop just a little, anything to keep his hips as far from her possible, hoping desperately to keep her eyes away from the front of trousers. 

She kept her eyes on his, however. She shook her head. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Ah, a snack then, surely,” he made to go get her something. 

“I’m really fine, Erik.”

But he was already gone. 

She pulled the pillow back into her lap. She was being silly again, and she scolded herself for it. Erik was her mentor, those feelings couldn’t lead anywhere. Not really. 

_Not till after you’re prima donna_, she reprimanded herself. 

There was time. She had time. 

Who knew how things might change between now and then? Perhaps fate would see fit to intervene and help her pick somehow. 

In the kitchen, Erik gripped the edge of the countertop and tried to take deep breaths. How dare his body behave so shamefully around Christine. It was disgusting, truly. She would never want something like that, not with him - that was a concept his brain could grasp very well, but also a concept that had unfortunately failed to be recognized by certain other parts of his anatomy. 

He waited a few minutes until he felt up to the task of walking again before he prepared a drink for her. 

He realized, suddenly, that she would be needing something to eat for dinner - but there were no plates. She couldn’t very well eat a dinner from a teacup, either. He frowned. Once again she was inadvertently hurt through his thoughtless actions. How could he keep doing this to her? Did he never learn his lesson? 

He came back with a teacup, this one filled with seltzer water mixed with juice. She wondered, briefly, what all he had been doing in the kitchen - he had been in there far longer than necessary for seltzer and juice. 

She thanked him, and drank it, and he watched her with great interest. A thought had occurred to him - a very poorly thought out thought - but once manifested, it wouldn’t leave him be. 

He should just ask her, he chided himself. _Just ask_. 

“Christine,” he started, nervous. 

He wanted this so badly. He might not get another chance. He was running out of time. 

“Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”


	4. Chapter 4

He thought she was going to politely decline, but she surprised him. 

“Dinner where?”

“Anywhere. Where would you like?”

She hesitated. 

“You pick, Erik.”

She was capable of going to any restaurant whenever she wanted - Erik had other concerns to worry about. He should be the one to pick, she decided. She’d feel awful if she picked somewhere that made him uncomfortable. 

He stood up and paced a little. He almost regretted asking, but he could never regret spending time with Christine. 

“There’s a place on Rue de Provence, is that okay with you?”

She nodded. 

“Of course. When will go?”

“An- an hour?”

“I’ll go get dressed, then,” she smiled softly at him. 

He could scarcely believe it was happening. He realized with a start that she was intending to dress up for dinner - which meant he should as well. He hurried to his room. 

She felt a smile across her face all the while as she picked out a nicer dress and pinned her hair up. She sprayed her best perfume on, and put on a little bit of makeup. It was so she would look fine to the other people in the restaurant, she told herself... but there was no denying that she hoped she looked fine to Erik as well. 

She took one last look at herself in the mirror, adjusting her corset and patting her hair and smoothing her lipstick. 

Erik, for his part, had been struck by a terrible thought as he had been dressing. His evening jacket on and his cologne applied, he rushed to his storage room to retrieve something. 

She went out to the sitting room where she found him pacing anxiously. When he saw her, he stopped and frowned. 

“Christine,” he said gravely. “I’m afraid I have forgotten something important.”

“What is it?” 

He looked absolutely miserable. 

“Your reputation, my dear, I-“ he hesitated, looking at something small he held in his palm. “Please, don’t think of this in way other than what it is, Christine, I certainly don’t mean it in any untoward fashion...”

Her brow furrowed as he held his hand out to her. On his palm was was diamond ring. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to-“

She looked up at him questioningly. 

“Christine, if we go out to dinner, and it looks as though we aren’t married-“ he faltered. “You’ll be judged quite mercilessly. It would look highly improper, you alone with a man and no chaperone and no ring. They might even turn us away.”

He swallowed hard. 

“It’s my mothers ring. You- you can wear it, if you like, just for dinner tonight. Just so you don’t receive any stares, you must understand I’m not asking you to-“

“I know, Erik,” she reassured him. “I know what you mean.”

“We- we don’t have to go out if you don’t wish to - you don’t have to wear it. I can go get us something and bring it back here, or maybe-“

She reached out and took the ring from him. 

“Just for tonight,” she said as she put it on her finger. “Just for dinner.”

He nodded, unhappy with the situation but unable to remove his eyes from her hand which now bore his mother’s ring. She really did look so much like her. 

“Are you ready?” she asked. 

He nodded again, unable to find his voice. 

They traveled above, which was a familiar journey, but it was very strange thing to step out on the street with Erik. He looked rather nervous, and she placed a comforting hand on his arm. 

“Are we going to walk there? It’s not that far,” she asked. 

“You shouldn’t have to walk that far in those shoes, my dear,” he answered smoothly, but the truth of the matter was he didn’t think he could walk that far without keeling over. “We’ll take a cab.”

She blushed a little as he hailed a cab. He had noticed her shoes. She looked down at the little boots she had put on especially for the occasion. They had a higher heel than she normally wore, and although she had no difficulty walking in them, she was touched that he had noticed and thought that far ahead. 

Two different cabs slowed down as though to pick them up, but each one sped up down the avenue when they caught a glance of Erik’s mask. He grit his teeth. His wounded pride urged him to simply walk instead and damn the cabs, but he was adamant about not dying in the street - if he had to die, and apparently he must, then he wanted it to be in his home with privacy and no gawkers who gathered to stare at the freak in his last moments. 

Christine frowned. She hated how difficult it was for him to do such normal things in everyday life. It was no wonder he typically shunned the world so. 

She stepped out and waved down a cab, the driver pulling the horses to a halt for her. She told him the directions to restaurant, and he nodded, although when he caught sight of Erik he looked like he wanted to change his mind. 

Erik stared at the ground, shamefaced. His hands were clenched into fists as Christine talked to the driver, and he could feel the man’s wary eyes on him. 

She never had problems like this with the boy, he was certain. 

Erik helped her into the cab and closed the little door behind them. He sat down across from her, and the cab started towards its destination. 

Pale lamplight shone in through the tiny windows, casting flashes of light on both of them. Christine couldn’t help how her hand fidgeted and twisted the ring around on her finger - she was so unused to wearing one. It did not help that it fit slightly loosely, and she was terrified of it falling off and becoming lost - it was a rather large diamond, after all, it was surely very expensive 

Erik tilted his head and watched her and she sat there, the occasional light causing the diamond to sparkle and shine. She had placed her hand over her chest, her fingers twisting the ribbon of her cape around them. He let himself imagine a different scenario in a different world, one with a different reason of why she was wearing his mother’s ring. Wouldn’t Madeline like that? A normal woman as a normal wife, the both of them going out to dinner just like anyone else might. In the dim light her hair looked darker, and it made his breath stick in his throat. The resemblance was uncanny. She smiled at him. Ah, but Madeline had never smiled at him. He looked away. 

“Have you been to this restaurant before?” Christine’s voice cut through his thoughts, reminding him who was really there with. 

“Hmm? Yes, once,” he replied. “Monsieur Bernard insisted on meeting over lunch one day, and this is where we went.”

Christine nodded. She was glad that Erik had an employer who was understanding, and she trusted that the man wouldn’t have picked a place that would treat Erik poorly over his mask. 

The cab stopped in front of the restaurant and Erik held out a hand to help Christine step down, which she took without hesitation. He didn’t think he would ever grow used to her trusting touches, how she never seemed to mind the contact. He thought, for a moment, of his mother again, and how she always took such pains to avoid touching him, and then he pushed the thought away entirely. Physical resemblance aside, Christine was nothing like her, and he was loath to allow the ghost of the woman who used to be to intrude anymore on the time he spent with his dearest. 

Christine saw a hint of recognition in the eyes of the host who stood at the front of the restaurant. She smiled wryly. Erik was not easy to forget. 

“Ah, Monsieur Travers,” the man said, bowing slightly. “How nice to have you back again. Right this way, please.”

Christine glanced at Erik, an eyebrow raised. Was that the name he had picked for himself? 

The host led them to a booth at the back of the restaurant, one of the ones that had curtains around it. 

They thanked the host and Erik quickly pulled the curtains closed. They were both quiet a moment as they looked at the menu, but gradually Christine began snickering. 

“What?” he looked up from his menu, catching the wicked gleam in her eye. 

“Christine Travers,” she chuckled, and Erik’s face turned red. 

“_Christine_, stop,” he said pathetically. 

She shook her head, still smiling. It amused her to no end. 

“What’s good here, Erik?” 

He pointed out the dishes he had tried last time. 

The waiter came to take their order, and had to pull back the curtain to do so. 

“What can I get for you, Monsieur?”

Erik told him his order. 

“And for your wife?”

His face turned red again, and he kept his eyes trained on the menu as he told him Christine’s order. 

Christine, his wife. He had suggested the ring to preserve her reputation, but felt he was disgracing her even still. 

She wrinkled her nose a little as she grinned at him, trying and failing to catch his eye as he ordered their food. She couldn’t say why she found the situation - and his embarrassment at the situation - so funny, but it was funny to her all the same. 

When he wouldn’t look at her, let her gaze wander to the rest of the restaurant, looking at the other guests there at all the tables. Suddenly her eyes went wide and she froze, her smile fading. She leaned back in her seat, praying they hadn’t seen her. 

Why was it taking so long to order? She desperately wanted the curtain closed again, but the waiter was taking forever to write down what Erik had told him. 

Finally the waiter turned from the table and Christine, pressing herself back into booth as far as she could, caught Erik’s eye. 

“Christine? What’s wrong?”

“Close the curtain, now please,” she whispered urgently. 

He closed the curtain as quickly as he could. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

His mind scoffed that _he_ was the problem, that she didn’t want anyone to see that she was with him, but no- no, Christine wasn’t like that, she had never been like that, and he swiftly reminded himself so, though the worry was still there. 

“It’s _Raoul_,” her voice was strangled. “Raoul is out there!”

Erik peered our the curtain as best he could without pulling it back. He scanned the room until he saw Christine’s young man sitting at a table with another man who held a resemblance to him. 

“His brother?” 

She nodded, rubbing her temples. 

“I see.”

He watched her she fretted over the situation. It was all his own fault, entirely. He was the one who destroyed all his plates, he was the one who had picked the restaurant... He was the one who suggested she wear a wedding ring for the evening. 

“Do you wish to leave, then?” he asked quietly. 

“No! No, if we leave now, he’ll see us for sure!”

Erik was quiet a moment. 

“Do you wish me to leave?” he finally asked. “Perhaps- perhaps you could eat with him, instead.”

He knew that she and boy had an unusual arrangement, that they didn’t play by society’s rules. Most would judge her for being out alone at night, but he knew Raoul would think nothing of it and eagerly invite her to join him. If he saw her with another man, however... Erik did not think the boy would be so forgiving in that case. 

Her expression softened and she moved to sit closer to him, reaching a hand out to place on top of his own hand on the table. 

“No, it’s not like that,” she told him. “It’s not- it’s Philippe, his brother.”

Erik stared at her little hand on top of his, at the ring which sat loosely on her finger. 

“You know I’m not certain about my future with Raoul, but his brother - well, his brother strongly dislikes me. And he doesn’t need another reason to dislike me. If he sees me out with another man - oh, he’d never let Raoul hear the end of it.”

“What about Raoul? What would he think?”

How could he be so selfish? He was putting her very future in jeopardy just by going to dinner with her. 

She pressed her lips together. 

“Well, he wants to marry me. He wouldn’t be thrilled to see us here, but - he wouldn’t hold it against me. He knows we aren’t exclusive.”

“He’d still marry you?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

She looked down. 

“I’m sorry this spoiled the evening, Erik.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry that a vicomte is in love you, my dear,” he chuckled mirthlessly, and left off the second part of that thought - _what you should be sorry about is that a monster is in love with you_. 

“I suppose we’ll have to stay until they leave,” she sighed. “And... I suppose... That means we’ll have to have dessert, won’t we?”

He looked up, surprised. 

“Yes,” he said gravely. “I suppose it will.”

She squeezed his hand. 

She turned away from the waiter as he placed their plates on the table, hoping to hide her face, but other than that she tried to not let the thought of who was just across the room bother her. As long as Philippe didn’t see her, everything would be fine. 

It was not lost on Erik that she did not return to her original position across from him, instead staying next to him for the rest of dinner. Despite the rest of the world existing just beyond that curtain, he found himself relaxing and even enjoying his time out. He never knew it was possible to feel so at ease out in the world. Even with the whole business with the boy and his brother, Erik was terribly glad he had asked her to dinner. 

He propped his chin on his hand, elbow on the table, as he watched her polish off a second slice of chocolate cake. He was stuck between awe and nauseation at the scene - while she always ate quite normally when in his home, that evening she had consumed far more than he ever would have thought possible for such a small woman. It was a sort of a special occasion, he supposed - even he himself had eaten vastly more than he usually did, though considering how little he ate at other times, that was hardly a feat. 

A little voice in the hack of his head told him that perhaps he should be looking at things differently - with his new job, he too could afford to give Christine a life of luxury. She could eat an entire cake every day if she wished to. He wasn’t so far behind the boy in that respect - he could provide very well for her. But - there were other considerations, he supposed. His health (or lack thereof). She’d likely be a widow quite soon, assuming he even lasted to the wedding. And in that time before that happened, what then? He couldn’t even hail a cab for her. The boy and his brother were capable of eating heir dinner out in the open, while he had to be hidden in the corner. No, it would never work out. 

Still, the evening was lovely. Towards the end of it he would peek out the curtain every so often to see if Raoul and Philippe were still there. Somewhere halfway through the meal the situation had turned from anxiety inducing to rather funny for Christine - she supposed the two glasses of red wine she had drunk had something to do with that. 

“Is he still out there?” she whispered, trying to stifle a giggle. 

“He is,” he confirmed, then frowned a little. “Christine, I don’t recommend another a glass of wine.”

The giggle escaped, and she put her hand over her mouth, feeling the cool metal of her ring - his ring - against her lips. She felt like she was a spy on a secret mission, and it was amusing to feel so. Her glass sat next to her elbow, nearly empty. 

“No more wine,” she promised seriously, but she was grinning. “But- but, is he still out there?”

Erik glanced out the curtain again. 

“Yes,” he turned back to Christine and noticed her glass was suddenly half full again.

He narrowed his eyes at the innocent look on her face, and pulled the wine bottle across the table to keep it on the other side of himself, out of Christine’s reach. 

“Your voice,” he tutted, and she giggled again. 

It was quite late when finally the de Chagnys were no longer there when he looked out. Erik payed the bill and they waited a little while longer in the hopes of avoiding running into them should they be just outside. 

At last Erik and Christine left the restaurant. He helped her put her cape on before they went outside, and she blinked against the cold air as they stepped out into the night. They had to walk to the corner to get a cab, and Erik, noticing she was a little unsteady on her feet, offered her his arm to hold onto, which she gratefully took. 

As they walked through the chilly air she glanced at her hands as they held on to the crook of his arm, and her eyes fell on the ring once more. His mother’s ring. She pressed her lips together. It was very lovely, but she didn’t want it - she wanted a different ring, one just he had chosen for just her, not one that held the baggage of his relationship with his mother. 

With his hat tipped low, he managed to get a cab to stop for them on the first try. He helped her up, and once inside she closed her eyes and sighed. What an evening it had been. She counted herself quite lucky that they hadn’t run into Philippe on the way to the street corner. 

They spent the ride in silence, and she almost fell asleep - something he teased her about as the cab pulled up to the opera house. 

“What did I say about that extra wine, my dear?” he placed a hand on her shoulder to shake her gently and wake her. 

She scowled and swatted at his hand, drawing a chuckle from him. 

“I’m awake,” she grumbled. “The wine already wore off.”

She rubbed at her forehead, a slight headache coming on. 

Once the cab was gone they made their way across to the hidden entrance to the cellars on the Rue Scribe side. By the time they reached his house she felt fully awake again, but they still talked very little. She went right to her room to put her cape away and let her hair down and change. It wasn’t until she was brushing her hair out in front of her vanity mirror that she realized she was still wearing the ring. 

She walked out to the sitting room and found Erik there, his own cape and hat and jacket gone, wearing just his waistcoat over his shirtsleeves which were tucked into his trousers. He turned from the fireplace to look at her as she entered the room and pulled her dressing gown around herself a little tighter. 

She approached him shyly, holding out the ring when she got close enough. 

“Thank you,” she said meekly. “I had a lovely time tonight.”

He nodded a little as he took the ring from her. 

“As did I.”

She stood there a moment longer, not sure what do or say. The fancy clothes and borrowed ring were gone - the night of make-believe was over, the carriage had turned back into a pumpkin, and she was left with more questions than answers about how she felt. 

“I want you to sleep in tomorrow morning,” he told her eventually, turning back to the fire, one hand resting on the mantle and the ring clutched in his other hand. “We’ll do a short lesson after that, and then you’ll go up above. Rehearsal starts the day after tomorrow, and I want you to be well rested for that.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt there was something she should tell to him, something important that she needed to say, but her mind couldn’t find the right words. 

“Goodnight, Erik.”

“Sleep well, sweet.”


	5. Chapter 5

Christine felt like she was in a dream on the first day of rehearsals. She was tired by the end of it, but content and satisfied. She knew she likely wouldn’t get to perform on stage - she’d never known Carlotta to need a day off - but she felt the experience she was gaining was invaluable. 

She sighed happily as she entered her dressing room and sat at her vanity, her smile growing wider as she noticed the single white rose that had been set next to her makeup brushes. She ran her fingers across the smooth stem and found the little note attached to it with a black ribbon. 

_for the future prima donna of the Opera Populaire_

She nearly shed a tear, touched at the gestured. 

White roses. Always white roses. She had come to associate the flower in that color with him. It was always such a sweet gift to receive, to know he was thinking of her. She had received a number of roses before, some from random admirers, many from Raoul, occasionally from friends, but all of those had always been other colors. Red, for love. Pink, for friendship. Peach, for admiration. And white, for innocence and sweetness. 

It made her smile, every time. 

She went to bed exhausted that night, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Her dreams mostly consisted of rehashing all she had done during rehearsal that day only in a different order, but eventually the dream shifted. This was a most agreeable dream indeed - she was being embraced by a lover. But who was it? She couldn’t see his face - or, perhaps, she didn’t want to see his face. She squirmed in his grip and smiled as he caressed her back and kissed her neck and shoulder. Everything felt perfect. She felt safe there in his arms, and she never wanted that feeling to end. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She didn’t know who it was, or at least she didn’t think she did - so when her dream self whispered something, it came as a shock even as words left her lips. 

“I love you, Angel.”

Christine Daaé immediately woke with a start, tangled in her bedsheets and feeling terribly overheated. Her pulse was pounding and her dream confession was still echoing in her ears as she blinked into the near darkness of her dormitory room. 

Surely- surely she hadn’t been dreaming of _Erik_, had she? 

She kicked off her sheets, wiped the sweat from her brow with her nightgown sleeve, and flopped back down onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. She repeated those words over and over in her mind, the very ones she had spoken in her dream, and she dreaded that they were true. 

She tried to put the dream from her mind and focus on the stage. It didn’t matter if she was in love him - she had a job to do. 

She had another lesson with Erik several days later, this one in the room upstairs with the piano. They worked on stage presence, as he could find little flaw with her voice. In truth, he felt perhaps she really didn’t need voice lessons anymore, but he was hesitant to tell her so. Her voice was beautiful, and she had worked hard to bring out her talent. Her biggest flaw was her nerves, but he knew with enough practice at auditions she would overcome that. 

It made it him sad, a little - the thought that she really didn’t need her Angel anymore. But in way it was slightly comforting, too - she would be well off enough to keep singing when he was gone. It would truly be a shame if he were to leave her struggling to achieve her dream. 

When he was gone - it was with that in mind that he lingered a little after her lesson was over. 

“I have plates again,” he said hopefully, and she smiled. “If you wanted to come over, that is. I have plates now.”

“I would love to. When is good for you?”

“Tonight?” his hands were sweating, he was unused to being so bold as to actually ask for her company. 

She nodded. 

“I’ll see you tonight, then. We can eat dinner off of your nice, new plates.”

He smiled at her words, relief flooding him. He loved spending time around her always, but he found that more and more he craved her presence in what he assumed were his last days. She hadn’t been to stay with him since they had gone out to dinner several days ago, and though he knew it was because she was busy, he had been dearly hoping she would come back to him. 

She still had an errand or two to run before she could go with him to his house, and he elected to stay up above in the shadows rather than having to return home and come back up again when he had to fetch her. He had thought he was being careful enough, but on his journey up for her lesson he once again had felt that terrible pressure in his chest and that dizzying lightheadedness that accompanied it. Part of him, the very worried part, wanted to tell Christine, or perhaps Nadir, but he knew they would only insist he go to a doctor, which he was strongly hesitant to do. Imagine going to the fuss of having a doctor poke and prod him (and probably force him to remove his mask, even) only for him to tell Erik that he was dying, that there was nothing he could do! What would the point even be? How likely was it that this was something that could be cured? He didn’t think it likely. No, he was resigned to his fate. Only... he only hoped that in the meantime he could spend more time around Christine, and that he wouldn’t frighten the poor girl by doing something as horribly embarrassing as _dying_ in the same room as her. A fine line to walk, indeed. 

He was waiting in her dressing room when she cane back from her errands, and he escorted her below. She spoke of rehearsal as they went, and when they reached the underground lake, she didn’t even notice a hint of trepidation about Erik - he hid his fears well. They both were silent as they crossed the lake, each with a lot on their minds. 

It wasn’t until they were inside his house that she spoke up again. 

“Oh!” she said as she hung her little hat on a hook in the entryway. “The funniest thing happened to me when I was out today, Erik!”

“What was it, my dear?”

“You’ll really never believe it - a bird tried to steal my hat!” she laughed. 

“Did it really?”

“Yes! It swooped down and kept trying to peck at it, it was so bizarre!”

“Hm. What an impertinent little beast. What kind of bird was it, do you know?”

“I couldn’t tell exactly, but it looked almost like a nightingale, I think.”

They had moved into the kitchen. 

“A nightingale?” he mused, pulling a few ingredients out of a cupboard. 

“Mmhmm.”

Erik was reminded of something from long ago, and against his usually better judgment, he asked. 

“Do you know the story of the rose and the nightingale, Christine?” 

She shook her head, curious. 

“It’s one I heard when I was in Persia. There’s a great many stories about them, actually - but they all have a quite similar theme. The rose, a thing of great beauty, proud and lovely. The nightingale, they say, is deeply taken with the rose - he is in love with her. But roses have thorns, you know. So the nightingale is the symbol of the lover who loves in vain - one who holds a love that is doomed to never be. One particular version - my personal favorite, actually - tells of a white rose, and how her nightingale sang to her every night in an attempt to win her affection,” he paused, staring off into space. 

“Did he succeed?” she asked in a small voice. 

“In a sense. He finally flies close enough to her that he might lay a kiss on her petals, but- the rose’s thorn pierces his heart, and he dies. That’s how they say red roses came into existence, the nightingale’s blood stained the white petals of his love.”

He looked at Christine, who looked horrified. 

“The rose couldn’t help it, you know. It wasn’t on purpose,” he told her gently. “That’s just how the world works.”

“But he still died,” she whispered, suddenly afraid that perhaps all those white roses he had left for her after her performances hadn’t meant what she had thought they meant. “Because of her.”

Erik smiled kindly and shook his head, giving a little shrug. 

“It’s just a story, Christine.”

He pushed off of the countertop he was leaning against, and began to busy himself with making the preparations for dinner. 

“How do you feel about fish for tonight? I was thinking a white wine sauce sounded good,” he said nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just revealed a part of his soul to her. 

She barely heard his question, only enough to nod in response, which he took as agreement. 

She looked down at her fidgeting hands, picking at her nails and trying to ignore the tremble that had come into them. 

She had taken it as a given that white roses symbolized innocence and pure intentions, and had assumed that they meant that to everyone else, too. But this? What Erik spoke of - doomed love and unrequited affection? She’d never heard of that story before, despite her great adoration for fairy tales and the like. Why would Erik give her a gift that had two different meanings, each so different? Was he expecting her to know the story from Persia, thinking her well read enough to have come across it before? Or did he give her the white roses specifically _because_ he thought that she wouldn’t know the second meaning, that he knew she’d take it to mean something innocent even though to him it meant something else entirely?

She sucked in a tremulous breath. 

White roses did not mean innocence. White roses meant tragic unrequited love. 

Was she his white rose? Was he the nightingale singing to her? 

Was she doomed to kill him in the end of it all? 

“Let me help you,” she sprang off of her chair, rushing into the kitchen. 

She couldn’t think of it anymore, couldn’t let herself get lost in such thoughts. 

_It’s just a story, Christine._

Except they had never been _just_ stories to her, and she thought that maybe it was the same way for him, too. 

He glanced up, a little surprised.

“If you wish. Here, you chop the vegetables while I go find us a good wine.”

She nodded eagerly, taking the knife from him. She thought about the story all the while she was cooking, and even still when they sat down at the table. 

“I never knew you traveled to Persia,” she said after they had settled down and served the food. “What was it like there? Were you there for very long?”

Erik thought carefully for a few moments before answered. 

“It was an experience,” he finally said. “I spent a number of years there, I believe, though I’m afraid I rather lost track along the line. I’ve never been one to fully keep track of such things.”

She nodded thoughtfully. 

“Did you like it there?”

Erik nearly choked on his drink. 

“I liked the arts there,” he said carefully. “The poetry and the architecture and the music - it is exquisite. The landscapes, too - much different than here. It’s a beautiful land.”

He desperately hoped that she wouldn’t ask too many more specific questions about it - he didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to tell her what exactly he was in Persia _for_. That was decidedly _not_ dinner table conversation. 

“I miss traveling, sometimes,” she said a little wistfully. “I’ve never been out of Europe, but I did so enjoy seeing so many different places. I think I’ve been in France now longer than I’ve been anywhere else, Sweden included. It would be nice, I think, to travel again one day.”

“I’m sure you’ll travel again one day, Christine,” he offered. “When you become a prima donna and make a name for yourself, opera houses and stages will be interested in hiring you for short term contracts. You can tour wherever you wish - I’m sure there’ll be a great demand for La Daaé.”

She smiled. 

“Do you really think so?” 

“Of course.”

“I think I’d like that very much,” she paused. “Would- would my Maestro travel with me?”

Erik froze in the middle of cutting up his fish. The room was silent. 

“By the time you’re ready to tour, I doubt you’d need lessons still.”

Her smiled faded. 

“Oh.”

He shrugged, his eyes firmly fixed on his plate. 

“It’s a long way off, Christine. I wouldn’t worry too much over it. If you truly need me at that point, I’ll go with you.”

She gave a single nod, looking down at her own plate. She felt like she would _always_ need him, and not only for his instruction - but she didn’t know how to articulate that to him without it taking on a meaning she wasn’t certain she wanted to give it. Still, she thought that it would be exciting to travel with Erik. It was so easy, so comfortable in his presence, and she wanted to share the experience of travels with him, see new places together. 

She bit her lip as she realized that perhaps the reason he was hesitant to say he’d go with her was related to his mask. Perhaps she had been careless in her suggestion of it - as it stood he barely left the opera house, how could she expect him to travel to different countries with her?

She desperately searched her mind for something to lighten the mood. 

“Even if I don’t really need them anymore, I think I’d miss our lessons while I’m traveling,” she finally said. 

“Before you get too pensive, my dear, need I remind you that you first have to become prima donna before you can even think of touring,” he raised and eyebrow, and she smiled. 

“I mean it, though. I would miss this. Miss us.”

She was quiet a moment, wondering if she could still take lessons with Erik if she was Madame de Chagny. 

Erik shifted uncomfortably. He longed to believe her, longed to believe that she meant what he hoped she meant, but... Hope was a dangerous thing. 

“I’m going to miss this as well,” he said quietly. 

She paused, taking in his words. Was he going somewhere? Or did he mean in the future? 

Ever the optimist, she tried again. 

“You wouldn’t have to miss this if you came on tour with me,” she smiled sweetly. 

He set his fork down on his plate and returned her smile, but it was tinged with such a sadness that it startled and worried her. 

“I must say, dinner turned out quite nice tonight,” he changed the subject. “Largely, I’m certain, to all the help it received from a charming young chef.”

Her worry eased and she laughed. 

“No, that’s not true - everything you cook is good, Angel.”

He shook his head. 

“No, tonight it is distinctly better,” he insisted. 

She looked down at her plate, shy and embarrassed. 

“It’s because of both of us, then,” she blushed. “Both of us together.”

He savored another bite of fish. 

“You know, my dear, I’m rather inclined to agree on that.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Two whole months!” Christine lamented as she hugged Raoul tightly. 

“And no letters,” he sighed. 

“I hate the mountains,” she pouted, and Raoul chuckled. 

“But I’ll be back in time to see the first show of the season,” he brightened. 

Christine pulled away and ducked her head. 

“I’m not even going to be onstage...”

“You never know, Lotte.”

“No, I know,” she smiled wryly. “Carlotta would never take a day off.”

They watched as the other cadets boarded the train under the watchful eye of their commanding officer. Raoul and his troop were spending two months in the mountains on a training expedition, and they had been informed that they would be unable to receive any letters so far out in the wilderness. 

“De Changy!” his officer called. 

Raoul hugged her one last time, and kissed her cheek.

“De Chagny, let’s go!”

He made to pull away but Christine pulled him back one last time, giving him a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Stay safe, Raoul. I’ll see you when you get back.”

A cupped a hand to her cheek. 

“I’ll be there at your dressing room door on opening night, I promise.”

He turned and waved as he run to the train, and she waved as long as she could still see him. The doors closed - Raoul was the last one to board - and the train pulled away with a loud clatter and a great cloud of smoke. She watched it disappear into the distance. 

She felt a little melancholy as she returned to the opera house. It would be a long time before she got to see him again. She was used to going long times in between seeing him, but this was the first time they wouldn’t even be able to talk through letters. 

On her way to her dormitory room she ran into Meg. 

“Christine, you look a little glum.”

“That’s because I feel a little glum, I suppose.”

Meg frowned. 

“Well,” she said. “I know just what will cheer you up. We’re having a Halloween party tonight!”

“Oh, Meg. I don’t think I’m up to a party tonight.”

“No, no, it’ll be fun! I promise!”

“We’ll see,” she sighed. 

She had already planned a solitary evening of moping, she didn’t feel in the mood for a party. 

She lay her bed all afternoon, feeling rather sorry for herself. She wanted to go see Erik, but he had told her ahead of time that he was meeting with Monsieur Bernard from his architect job and would likely be out all day. She supposed she could go to his house, but it would be empty and she thought Erik’s empty house would make her feel even more lonely. 

She waited for Meg to barge in and try to drag her to the supposed party, but the afternoon drew on and still she didn’t come. Christine huffed about it a little. True, she had told Meg she didn’t want to go, but still... It was nice to be asked. 

The afternoon came and went and the early evening did the same. Her curiosity was piqued. When was the party? Did Meg really go to it without her? 

She got up and intended to look out her door, but a knock came at it before she could. She opened it, and Meg stood there grinning. 

“Are you ready for the party?” she asked, and Christine shrugged. 

She _was_ ready for a party. 

“Halloween isn’t until more than a week away,” she protested weakly, trying to keep up her pretense. 

Meg raised an eyebrow. 

“But Sonia brought snacks!”

“Well...”

“Come on, Christine! We’re going to tell our fortunes!” Meg tugged on her arm. 

Christine rolled her eyes but let Meg lead her to the common area of the girls dormitories, sitting next to her on the floor in the circle of girls. 

The lights were out except for a few strategic candles, and Sonia held one large pillar candle in her hand. In the middle of the circle of girls was a large basin of cool water. 

“It’s simple,” Sonia explained. “You hold the candle, and pour some of the wax into the water. Whatever shape the wax cools into will show you what profession your future husband has!”

There were whispers and giggles as they shifted and squirmed, and Christine thought it was a little silly - could wax really show you something like that? - but Meg’s eyes were shining and she looked excited, so Christine supposed she’d play along even if she wasn’t too certain about it all. 

Sonia handed the candle to Alexis, who fidgeted with a moment. She started to tilt the candle to pour the wax but stopped. 

“What happens if it doesn’t look like anything?” Alexis asked, nervous. 

“Then it means you won’t get married,” Sonia replied ominously. 

Alexis’ eyes widened as she looked at the candle, and she tightened her grip on it. The stakes of this little game suddenly seemed higher. 

She took a gulp of a breath and thrust the candle forward toward the basin, spilling the wax. 

Every girl leaned forward to see what shape the now-cooled wax puddle had taken. It floated on the top of the water, inconsequential in its simplicity yet oddly foreboding. 

“It looks like a knife,” Alexis whispered, her brow creasing. 

“A murderer!” screeched Colette. 

“No!” Meg cried. “A chef, surely!”

“A chef who _murdered_ someone!” Colette insisted. 

“I’m afraid I rather wouldn’t trust his cooking, in that case,” Alexis chuckled nervously. 

The girls shrieked and laughed, and the tension seemed to melt as the wax did, and the candle was passed to Colette. 

She stared into the flame a few moments, then let her eyes slide closed as she whispered a few words before tilting the candle. She held her breath as she peered into the basin. 

“It looks like a horse!” Sonia piped up. 

Colette nodded vigorously. 

“A stable groom?” Alexis smiled. 

“Yes, yes! That’s Brendan!” Colette’s face lit up thinking of the young man she was courting. Any day now, she hoped, he might propose, and she so looked forward to it. 

The other girls made noises of encouragement - all of them thought Brendan was a fine match for her, even if he did have the penchant for smelling like a stable at times. 

The candle was utilized in a similar manner by each girl until it was Christine’s turn. She held the candle a moment, feeling silly. Still, all the other girls had done it, and she had to admit she was having fun at guessing the shapes that were barely there. 

She tipped the candle wax into the basin and leaned in to look. It looked rather like a blob, but if she squinted she supposed it was a shape... of some sort. It was a distinctly square sort of blob, one that, if she looked closely enough, looked somewhat like- 

“A house!” Sonia said. 

“You’re going to marry a house, Christine,” Alexis’s brow furrowed. 

“No!” Meg cried at swatted at her friend. “It’s a very fancy house, but she’s marrying the _man_ associated with the house, not the house itself!” 

“What career is associated with a _house_?” Colette wondered out loud. 

Meg and Christine both answered at the exact same time. 

“A vicomte, obviously!” Meg piped up. 

“An architect,” Christine breathed. 

They looked at each other, each one baffled by the other’s answer. 

Meg’s brow knit. 

“A vicomte owns a lot of property... Do you know an architect?”

Christine was at a loss for words. 

“It’s your turn, Meg, here,” she handed the candle to Meg. 

Meg’s confusion lifted just a little as she took the candle, biting her lip as she poured the wax. Her eyes were bright, Christine’s whisper now forgotten. 

The wax dripped into the basin. 

The girls leaned in, and after a moment of studying the wax, tried to offer their on its shape. 

“It- it looks like...”

“I think maybe...?”

“Um, hmm...”

Meg blinked back tears. 

“It doesn’t look like anything,” her voice wavered, and it was true. 

Christine felt her heart twist. The wax dripping looked like a wax dripping and nothing more, and though some of the shapes of the night had been greatly exaggerated, Meg’s truly didn’t look like anything at all. 

“No, it does!” Christine put an arm around Meg’s shoulders and pointed at the wax. “Look, if you turn it this way, it looks like- like a crown!”

The other girls squinted and tilted their heads, trying to see it. 

“A crown,” Christine insisted. “An old fashioned one, but a crown all the same. You’re going to marry a royal, Meg!”

The light came back into Meg’s eyes. 

“Do you really think so?” she whispered. 

“The wax doesn’t lie,” Christine replied seriously, and Meg put her hands over her now grinning mouth. 

“Just think,” Francesca sighed. “Meg, a duchess!”

“An empress!” Christine asserted. 

The girls all giggled and good-naturedly teased Meg till her face turned red, entreating her to remember them all when she was incredibly wealthy and famous. 

The candle was passed around until each girl had gone, and when fortune telling was done, Sonia pulled out a big bag of snacks which she portioned out into bowls for everyone. There were green and black grapes, candied almonds, and marshmallows that had been covered in chocolate. 

Meg clapped her hands together excitedly. 

“It’s time for ghost stories!” she exclaimed. 

Meg started off with a story about a woman who haunted the banks of the Seine, and Colette had a story she swore was true about an apparition she had seen in a barn, and Sonia told them a story that she also swore was true and had happened to her but Christine recognized it as an old folk tale from Germany - the other girls, however, shuddered and shook and squealed at Sonia’s alleged encounter with a troll. Christine found she still enjoyed the story, even knowing it’s origins. 

But then Francesca said she had a story to tell. 

“This a story,” she started off ominously. “About the Phantom of the Opera.”

The other girls ooh’ed and ahh’ed. 

“Oh dear,” Christine squeaked, a sinking feeling in her stomach. 

“Everyone knows of the fearsome phantom who lurks in the shadows and terrorizes all who dare to dwell here, but few have ever actually seen the specter... _and lived to tell the tale_.”

Christine picked nervously at the hem of her skirt. 

“But my uncle who works in the flies saw him! Saw him clear as day!” Francesca continued. “He said he’s seven feet tall, with terrible yellow eyes.”

The girls gasped. 

Yellow? Christine thought that was unfair... They were light hazel, or perhaps amber, but yellow? And Erik was tall, yes, but seven feet was _excessive_. 

“He’s naught but a skeleton, dressed all in black-“

Christine frowned. He was bony and thin, but _skeleton_ just sounded so cruel. 

“And his face!”

Christine felt the blood pounding in her head, a stupid grimace of a smile on her own face. 

“He has no nose, none at all!”

She squirmed. It wasn’t that he had _no_ nose, he had a nose, it was just... not entirely there. 

“My uncle saw that terrible figure, those awful eyes alight in that skull of a face, and he tried to flee, but suddenly something had grabbed ahold of him and pulled him to the ground! He heard the most horrible laughter, like the devil himself was mocking him!”

Christine frowned. In all fairness, that _did_ sound like something Erik might do. She would have to speak with him about it. 

“But then just as quickly as the phantom had appeared and tripped him, he was gone.”

Meg shrieked and clung to Christine, who sighed and patted her back. 

“Oh please,” Meg begged. “Please don’t talk about him anymore! If you keep talking about him, he’ll show up, I just know it!”

“Yes,” Christine added hastily. “Let’s talk about something else.”

The stories turned to different topics, but Christine still felt highly disturbed. It had made her feel quite badly to hear all her friends shriek and gasp as Erik was so poorly described - and what would they think of her if they knew? Knew that she very nearly lived with him? Knew that she had dreams about him touching her? They would be horrified and disgusted, of course. There was something wrong with her, and it scared her. 

Except- she didn’t live with and very nearly love a seven foot tall skeleton with glowing yellow eyes, not _really_, she lived with and cared for _Erik_. He was just a man, wasn’t he? Not a ghost or a demon or a phantom. Just Erik. She could see the man behind the facade of the monster, and she- well, she did love him. Loved him as she loved Meg and Raoul and Colette, but that was love all the same. Surely there was nothing frightening about or wrong with love, was there? And even if he did look how they had said he did - well, he was still Erik, wasn’t he? Wasn’t it what was on the inside that mattered? 

She barely heard the rest of the ghost stories, wondering if that’s what Erik’s entire life had been like, if people had often said those kinds of things about him to his face. He couldn’t help how he looked, it wasn’t fair. She was awfully glad that he didn’t spy on the dormitories, that he hadn’t heard what they had said about him. Perhaps he encouraged that kind of idea about him to cement the concept of the Opera Ghost, but she thought that even still it must sting just a little to hear people talk about how hideous he was. 

When the stories and snacks were finished, gossip was exchanged, and finally Christine began to feel tired. It was the small hours of the morning when they decided it was time for bed, and they blew out the burnt-down candles and poured the water basin into the sink, and one by one they all went to bed. 

Christine was on her way to her room when Meg came up and hugged her. 

“Christine,” she said. “Thank you.”

She knew it was about the wax.

“Of course,” she said. “Now go get some rest, Empress.”


	7. Chapter 7

Things continued that way for several weeks. 

Christine did her lessons, learned a role she’d likely never play, and thought forlornly about her romantic situation. What she thought she should want and what she actually wanted seemed to clash to the point that she didn’t even know her own mind on the matter. Sometimes she dearly wished that fate would just intervene and decide for her, because she didn’t think that she could. If only there was some sort of sign, something that could help her make up her mind - what if Raoul found some girl who lived in the mountains and fell madly in love? What if Erik- 

Well, she didn’t think Erik would likely find another girl to fall in love with. He really only spoke to a few people, after all. Unless... 

_My dear, I have wonderful news - I want to invite you to my wedding. The Daroga and I are getting married, you see._

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at the thought. But still, a little guidance would be nice - if for no other reason than to simply spare her both the burden of making the decision and the responsibility for the consequences. If she picked and it turned out terribly, well - it couldn’t really be her fault if the universe had conspired against her, could it? 

Luckily, she had her hands full and her mind busy with training. Being prima donna, even just in the role of an understudy, involved a great deal of work, and though it was a challenge, it was one she felt up to. 

Erik was diligent about polishing her performance in every way. He was well aware that she thought she wouldn’t even be on stage, but _he_ had ideas to the contrary, so he made certain that they met at least four times a week to do a lesson. She would perform on stage as the leading lady, and he was going to see it - he would accept nothing less. 

There were still times he would overexert himself and spend a few long moments with frightening symptoms, during which he was certain the end was near. During and after such moments he would feel another ache in his chest accompanied by a stinging at the corner of his eyes - he wanted Christine. He wanted Christine to be there for him in the midst of whatever was happening to him, to take his hand and hold him close and stroke his hair. To comfort him. He knew she didn’t love him, but - he didn’t want to be alone, not like that. 

But he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t do that to her, distracting her from her focus of the stage and bring back the terrible memories of losing her father. He felt selfish in the wake of those moments of being unable to catch his breath, selfish for wanting her there with him so he didn’t have to die all alone, and it only made him feel all the more ashamed of himself. 

Then there was the rest of the time - times when he hadn’t had an attack in a while, times he felt absolutely fine. Surely he was fine, was he not? He _felt_ fine... He could go days without an attack, a full week sometimes, and when he did have one sometimes it was only minor. He had lasted with this now for some time, surely he would last at least until he devised a way to get Christine on stage. 

He had not given up on the idea of finding an accident for Carlotta. If anything, he was more determined than ever before. She _must_ meet with an accident. The only problem was that nearly all of the accidents he could think of were rather... permanent. Christine would cry and never forgive him if he did something like that, and the Daroga would get involved and tut at him endlessly, and besides, he was not wild about the whole idea to begin with - he had had enough of that kind of thing in his younger years and was not keen to repeat the act again.

But still, he was determined that something must happen to get her off the stage, at least for one show so Christine would get a chance. 

That’s why when it happened, it was as much of a shock to him as anyone else. 

He had watched the whole thing unfold, sitting in the darkness of Box Five, slack jawed and dumbfounded. _He_ had not been the cause of _this_! Had he? The question floated through his mind, absurd as it was. But no, he had had no part in what had befallen La Carlotta - he was just as baffled as everyone else as they watched. 

Had Christine not seen it occur before her very eyes, she would have sworn that Erik was behind it all. The story of what had happened, if he had been the one to relay it to her, would have sounded horribly phony and the worst attempt at a lie he could have come up with. But no - she had watched the bizarre scene right in front of her as though in slow motion. 

It was two and half weeks until opening night. It wasn’t so different from most rehearsals, the director busy with speaking to the conductor, and the performers mulling about and taking a break before they had to start again. 

Carlotta had her dog with her, as she often did, and her English maid was at her side with a tray of various items, as she always was. 

Carlotta grabbed the pink atomizer bottle from the tray and sprayed it into her mouth, another common occurrence - she was strict about keeping her voice in the best condition possible, and used the spray between breaks to keep her throat lubricated. 

The little dog, which she was holding in her arms, decidedly did not like the atomizer, and began to wiggle violently and whine. 

It leapt out of her arms and on to the stage, running a short distance before violently shaking its fur, stoutly ignoring it’s mistress’s calls for it to return to her. Carlotta’s maid tried to catch it, but it ran from her. Piangi tried to head it off, but it darted between his legs. 

Joseph Buquet suddenly came running from the wings. 

“No!” Carlotta screamed, and began chasing the dog herself, determined that Buquet not be the one to catch it - the man still harbored a burning hatred for the creature after it had bitten him when he had tried to pet it, and he had threatened the little animal on numerous occasions after that. 

The little dog, thinking it had found itself now engaged in a game with the entire opera company, began to bark shrilly and waggle its back end and stump of a fluffy tail. It darted this way and that as performers tried to grab it, eluding all of them. 

It led them on a quite a chase around the scenery, until finally it turned and headed towards the stairs. Buquet noticed where it was heading and agilely jumped from off the stage to the ground level floor, hoping to head it off and grab it as it reached the bottom of the stairs. 

Carlotta redoubled her efforts, grabbing her skirts up out of her way and running as best she could in her high heeled shoes. 

She reached the top of the stairs almost as soon as the dog did, and she dropped her skirts from her grasp in order to reach for her beloved dog. 

The many layers of her costume skirts and the awkwardly tall heel of her shoe conspired against her. 

She tripped on the stairs - the very stairs she herself had often used to trip others and make it look like an accident, the very stairs she had pushed Christine on to make her fall a number of times in the past - Carlotta was, at last, a victim of those very same stairs. 

She squealed as she toppled over them - it was, quite luckily for herself and her previous victims, a very short set of stairs, but it was tall enough to seriously twist an ankle. 

Everyone froze in place as they watched as though in a haze - everyone except the dog, who suddenly decided there was no place he’d rather be than in the arms of his mistress. He climbed up onto her lap as she sat with her legs sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, nosing his way under her arm and licking her hand. 

“I’m fine!” she said a little too loudly, horribly embarrassed. “I’m fine, it’s fine!”

She held tight to her dog and tried to stand up, but when she put the slightly pressure on her left foot, she fell again. 

The crowd slowly came to their senses. Buquet slunk off to the wings, hoping he wouldn’t be blamed. The director came close to check on Carlotta, and her maid and Piangi rushed to help her up. 

“It’s not broken,” she insisted. “It’s but a sprain, I am fine and I can continue to perform.”

The director shook his head. 

“You can’t even stand. Four weeks off, you need to heal.”

“What? No, no, no - look, I can stand,” Carlotta entreated, standing on her own and wincing. 

“Four weeks off,” the director was adamant. “You’re not getting fired, La Carlotta - you just need to take the time to get better.”

“But-!”

“Off!” he pointed to the exit, then addressed her maid and Piangi. “Take her to a doctor and make certain she’s fine, I want to take no chances.”

Carlotta pouted and scowled, But let herself be led off by her two friends on either side of her, her little dog clutched to chest. She could walk, but with a limp. 

Everyone watched her go, uncertain. 

The director addressed them all. 

“These things do happen,” he shrugged. “La Carlotta will take time off to fully heal, and she’ll be joining us again once she is recovered. Everything else will go as planned. In the meantime, prima donna, you’re up.”

He gestured to Christine. 

It took her a moment to fully process what had happened, what it meant for her, and what he had said. Her mind was still on Carlotta and sympathy for her tumble. 

_prima donna, you’re up_

Her eyes widened. 

It had happened. It had truly happened. Four weeks of recovery time - two weeks and handful of days until opening night. Christine would be the leading lady for opening night. Carlotta would be coming back, of course, but - Christine would be on stage. Christine was going to be prima donna. 

Erik’s mind was swimming. It hardly seemed real. 

They rehearsed for another hour, and as soon as they were done Christine shot off in a run to Box Five. Erik had been on the verge of running to her dressing room but stopped when he realized she was coming to him. He didn’t think he could run, besides. 

It wasn’t long before she burst into the little room, and after he closed the door, they both merely stood there in shocked silence. 

“Christine,” he breathed. “Christine, you’ve done it.”

Her mind was filled to brim with so many thoughts, and she misunderstood him. 

“I didn’t do it, her dog did!” she squeaked. 

His rich laughter rang out. 

“My dear, I was about state a similar sentiment,” he reached out a hand to cup her cheek, and she leaned her face into the touch, heart racing. 

How far they had come, she thought, that he no longer minded letting her feeling his chilly skin against her own. 

He let his hand linger but then pulled it back all too soon for her liking. 

“Opening night. I trust you feel comfortable in the role?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

“Yes, I’ll be ready for it,” she paused. “But- I need to go to Perros first. Just for a little bit. I’ll be back in plenty of time to go over anything I still need to cover.”

“Of course, Christine,” he brushed a hand on her upper arm, longing to hug her but refraining. He knew why she was going to Perros, and knew that she always preferred to go alone. 

“I’ll be back on Thursday, can we do a lesson the day after?”

“Let’s do an afternoon one, so you can get plenty of rest beforehand.”

“Thank you, Erik,” she whispered, smiling. “I’ll see you then, okay? Friday afternoon.”

“Friday afternoon, sweet,” he nodded. 

He watched her as she left, and he stayed in Box Five a while longer. Christine Daaé, prima donna of the Opera Populaire. It was an achievement, regardless of how many performances she actually did beyond opening night. 

He eventually made his way down to his home, still in a daze. His fingers were itching to crawl across the keys of his organ, itching to scrawl notes down on parchment. He was feeling particularly... triumphant. He smirked to himself as he sat at the organ bench, arranged the sheet music, and launched into his magnum opus that he had been working on for years. 

Christine, meanwhile, was packing her things she’d need for the trip to Perros. 

It was a solemn journey, one spent in silence until she was standing before her father’s gravestone. She wished dearly that he was still here, but she had faith that he could see her even now. She knew he would be happy with what she had accomplished, and proud of her. 

“I did it, Papa. Just like we always talked about. I’m going to be the prima donna on opening night.”

She recounted the bizarre tale of the little dog, and she spoke of her anxiety over being able to perform such a large role, and of how excited she was to be given such an opportunity. She told him everything - almost everything. There was one subject she had never broached before, one that she had avoided mentioning in previous visits. She had told him of her joy, so long ago, at finally receiving the Angel Of Music. She had not, however, brought the Angel up again after finding out the truth. 

“There’s someone I want to tell you about, Papa,” she said softly, a small smile on her lips. “His name is Erik.”


	8. Chapter 8

Christine looked at the clock in her dressing room and fretted. Erik was always so punctual, it wasn’t like him to be late. He was supposed to have fetched her to escort her downstairs for her lesson nearly twenty minutes ago, and she was beginning to worry. She knew she had been gone a few days, but he had never forgotten a lesson of their before. 

She was already on edge with the strain of rehearsals and the looming opening night not more than a fortnight away. Her hard work and dedication had paid off enormously - she knew her role inside and out, but she still was worried about forgetting while on stage. It was a huge step towards her goals, and it was as terrifying as it was magical. She needed Erik there with her now more than ever - not only to help her prepare but also to calm her with his soothing presence. 

By the time he was forty minutes late, she could stand it no longer, and slid the mirror back herself before entering the tunnel, making certain to close it behind her. It was dark in places, and she wrapped her arms around herself and quickened her pace. She was scared of the dark, even still - the reason that Erik always brought a lantern with him when he came to fetch her. She didn’t have time to get one to bring with her - a funny thought, to not have time when time was in excess that afternoon, but her nerves were positively on the verge of bursting and she didn’t have the presence of mind to remember that a lantern would be useful. 

She rowed herself across the lake, noticing now the strange, eerie glow it seemed to give off. It wasn’t until the other bank was in sight that she realized she didn’t have her key with her. She had taken it off before she went to Perros and had neglected to bring it with her to her dressing room, thinking that she wouldn’t need it. 

She finally reached the little house on the lake, searched the entire bank for any sign of him, and then approached the front door. She reached for the doorknob and found it locked. A lump formed in her throat. She had nightmares that started like this. She banged on the door and called out his name, her voice a little more panicky than she would have liked. 

There was no answer. 

She looked around desperately, but there were no answers down here - the glowing lake and hazy mist and mossy stone walls gave away nothing. Her mind began to fill scenarios, none of them good. 

“Erik!” she practically sobbed, beating on the door again. 

Still no answer. 

It had finally happened, just as she’d always feared. 

At a loss of what else to do, she took off one of her shoes and used the heel to break the glass of one of the windows. She hated to do it, to harm his charming little house he had worked so hard on - but she hated even more the thought of simply turning around and leaving. He might need help, maybe he could still be saved - and if not, if she was too late, well... she couldn’t just leave him like that. He deserved better than that. 

Careful to not cut her herself on the edges of the broken glass, she struggled to climb through the window. Once inside she glanced wildly around, trying to steel herself for what she would find. She walked through room after room, her steps shaky, tears rolling down her cheeks. She hoped she’d be strong enough - not just physically, but mentally - to be able to move him when she found him. 

Her tension grew as she swiftly ran out of rooms to look for him in, knowing he had to be in one of them. She turned down a hallway that led to his music room and the living room, but she didn’t get a chance to inspect either one. 

Erik casually strolled out from his bedroom. 

She stopped short and gasped. 

Erik noticed her and his eyes widened. Her face was blotchy from crying and her shoulders were shaking as she gaped at him. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. 

And no wonder, he realized - at some point in his haze of composing he had taken his mask off and neglected to put it back on. Panic rose up in him and he belatedly threw a hand up over the right side of his face. 

But to his utter surprise and confusion, instead of running away, Christine ran _to_ him and threw her arms around him, bursting into a fresh set of sobs as she pressed her face into his chest. 

He hesitantly placed his arms around her. 

“Christine, dearest - what’s wrong, what’s happened?” he tried to calm her, but she merely shook her head and continued to cry. 

Still baffled, he led her to the sitting room where he sat down on the couch with her. 

“What are you even doing down here, sweet?” he asked gently. 

She glanced up at him, her eyes red and watery. 

“You didn’t show up for my lesson.”

“Lesson?” he swallowed. “Christine... What day is it?”

“Friday,” she whimpered against him. 

“Oh- oh, Christine, I’m so sorry,” he hugged her a little tighter. “I was composing, my dear, and I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to worry you in any way.”

She sniffled. 

“What were you composing?”

“Hmm. Just an opera I’ve been working on for a while now. I haven’t worked on it in ages, but I was suddenly had the urge to do so, and I guess I just got... carried away,” he shrugged a little. 

“What’s it called?” she asked softly. 

“Ah,” he chuckled sheepishly and paused. “It’s ah, it’s called ‘Don Juan Triumphant’.”

“Will you play some of it for me?” 

She was longing for anything to take her mind off of what she had thought happened. What better way to prove he was still alive, still here with her than to hear him play the music he had written?

“_No_, no - not that. You- you wouldn’t like that, I’m afraid... But why don’t I get you some tea to drink before your lesson?”

He made to pull away from her but she fisted her hands in the fabric of his shirt and pulled gently and he sat back down. 

“I don’t want to do a lesson today, Erik,” she whispered. “I just want to sit here with you for a little while.”

“Are you certain?” he frowned. 

She nodded, and let her hands move from their grip in his shirt to rest on his shoulders. 

“When you didn’t show up, and then you didn’t answer your door- I thought... I thought you had...” she sniffed, her brow furrowed. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. 

“Christine...” he traced small circles on her back with his fingertips. 

He didn’t know how to reply to that. He had assumed, when the time came, that she would be sad, of course. She would miss him as one misses a great teacher in one’s life, as a mentor who had helped her immensely. But he hadn’t expected it to be like this for her. He hadn’t expected her to _mourn_, that she would be near inconsolable over it, that she would be unable to stem her tears even _after_ finding out that he was not yet departed. The smallest sprout of hope bloomed in his heart that maybe - just maybe - her feelings towards him carried even the tiniest scrap of love. She respected him, yes - respected him and enjoyed his company, she trusted him and cared for his wellbeing, but to be _loved_... That was something else entirely. 

Ever since that fateful party that they had attended all those months ago, he had tried so hard to keep everything between them just the same as it had always been. The one difference that had seeped through, however, was evident in how they were sitting on his couch - Christine was not afraid of his touch, and now he knew it. It was a novel concept, that he didn’t have to feel regret or shame if their fingers should brush or if he tapped her shoulder to remind her of her posture - and even more novel had been her asking him for a hug on her birthday recently in the late spring, a request he quickly complied with even if he didn’t fully understand _why_ she wanted such a thing from him. But touching Christine, he realized, could be a slippery slope indeed, so even still he tried to hold back lest one day he cross a line that they both regretted. 

Any joy he felt at holding her now was offset by both the discomfort of her tears and the awkwardness of how he was dressed. True to his word he had been composing with very little rest or breaks, unable to hear anything but the music in his head, unable to do anything but scrawl down notation and lyrics and pound out strange new chords on the keys. Assuming that he was safe in his locked house he had forgone wearing his mask (he was thankful, now, that in his vanity he had kept the wig on regardless) and most of the rest of his clothing - trousers and suspenders and a shirt which he had rolled the sleeves up to elbows and neglected to button all the way up. 

Still, he wouldn’t have minded his shameful state of dress as much if he at least had his mask on - Christine had seen his face before, yes, and except for the very first time she had seen it she had always been exceedingly kind about it, but he still couldn’t help but want to keep it hidden from her all the same. Lost as she was in her grief over her imagined loss of him, she hadn’t even seemed to register that he was unmasked. Was this what it was like to be a normal man? To have your wife run to you and embrace you without a second thought, without glancing at your face and cringing? There would be less crying, of course, in that situation. 

_Christine is not your wife_, he reminded himself as her hands slipped around his waist to hug him closer. 

“I couldn’t bear to lose you so suddenly, Erik,” she cried. “Promise me, promise me you’ll tell me if you know you’re going to- if you know that you’re ill. Please, I’d want to know.”

His heart twisted. His dear little Christine. She was so sweet to worry over him when he so clearly didn’t deserve it. He placed his hands around her shoulders. 

_Christine will never be your wife_, he reprimanded himself even as he let one hand trace down her delicate shoulder bone, skated a finger across her upper arm until it reached the edge of her sleeve at her elbow. 

_You have no right to touch her_, he let his thumb caress the soft skin at the inside of her elbow. _You will **never** have that right_, he ran his fingertips down her forearm, following the fragile tendons there until he reached her wrist, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing gently before removing her hand from its place on his waist. 

He lifted her little hand up and fought the sudden urge to press a kiss to her small palm, instead pressing her hand against his chest, over his heart so she could feel its steady, if somewhat fast, beat. He relished the feeling of her warm hand against his own palm and through the thin fabric of his shirt, though somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized that in order for him to feel that warmth, she in turn was being enveloped by ice. 

“It’s alright, Christine, I’m not going anywhere, I promise you,” he murmured, pressing down the guilt he felt at those words. 

He couldn’t promise her that. He had no real way of knowing, had never been to a doctor in all his decades of life. And now, with the the things he had been noticing of late, odd little feelings here and there that he’d never had before, symptoms that might mean noting at all or might signal the beginning of the end of everything. 

He had promised her once before that he’d never lie to her again. He’d committed many sins in his long life - he was most assuredly already damned to hell three times over - yet none felt as condemning as that honey-sweet false promise he’d just whispered in her ear. He closed his eyes. What choice did he have, though? With her weeping on his shoulder? To tell her he didn’t even know if he was sick because he’d never seen a doctor, that most of the time he’d didn’t even care to know because he didn’t mind the prospect of the inevitable too much? 

But now, holding her in his arms as she wept over him, he found that he _did_ mind - he minded very much. He knew his only regret over leaving this life would be leaving Christine behind, for he knew he’d never see her again after that. If there was something after all this, he knew with certainty that he and she would not end up in the same place. But that had always seemed to be a regret for him alone - surely Christine would accept that one as wicked as him must surely go somewhere else than her, after all. That was only right and she was a righteous woman who wouldn’t seek to argue with justice. She cared for him, yes, but he had always figured that her pain, if any, at losing him would be minuscule compared to his at losing her. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. She had only thought she’d lost him for less than half an hour, and look what a state she was in. Would she grieve him as deeply as he grieved the thought of eternity without her? 

Perhaps, he thought as her sobs began to quiet, perhaps he should go see a doctor after all. For her sake. If he could do something - anything - to extend his time with her, then maybe that would lessen his lie to her. And if he truly was running out of sand in his hourglass, down to the last few crumbs, well - he certainly hadn’t known that (even if he strongly suspected it) when he promised her, had he? 

He let one hand slowly raise itself to her hair, twining into her curls and cradling the back of her head. For a moment he held the hope of a quite possibly unattainable goal - if he could atone for his sins, if he could right all his many wrongs, if he could be good - truly good - from this day forward, then maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance that he too could go to Heaven afterwards. He didn’t even know how to go about such a thing - if such a thing was even possible. But he would try, for Christine’s sake. He hadn’t realized just how much he meant to her. And if such an impossibility as Christine weeping over the loss of him could exist, then perhaps other hitherto impossible things could exist, too. Perhaps sins really could be forgiven - perhaps there was balm in Gilead after all. 

His eyes flew open and he swiftly removed his hand from its place in her hair. He might not know how to go about receiving heavenly forgiveness, but he knew damn well that taking advantage of her grief so that he could touch her would do him no favors in that department. He gently extracted himself from her grip and stood up, settling her back against the couch. 

“Oh, Christine,” he chided softly. “You’re shivering. Stay right here, dearest, I’m going to get you a blanket.”


	9. Chapter 9

Erik returned with a blanket in mere moments, his mask firmly in place. In the time he had been in the other room he had also rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his shirt and placed a waistcoat over it. He felt more at ease now that he was dressed better, but he was still a little flustered that Christine had seen him so. 

After she had started staying regularly in his house, he had taken measures to soundproof his bedroom - she loved his music, yes, but even the most ardent fan would surely not be pleased to be jolted out of slumber by the crashing notes of a pipe organ. And he had, out of habit, closed his bedroom door now when he sat down to compose - a recipe for disaster when he hadn’t been able to hear her knocking on his front door or calling for him, and also keeping her from hearing the fact that he was quite clearly alive inside the little house. 

He wrapped the blanket around her as she looked up at him gratefully. Despite his resolve just moments earlier against touching her, his hands lingered on her shoulders just a moment more than was necessary. 

“Oh, my poor darling,” he sighed. “What can I get you? Some tea perhaps?”

She shook her head at first, then reconsidered. 

“Have you had anything to eat or drink today?” she asked him, her voice a little hoarse. 

He shrugged sheepishly. 

“The past few days have been a bit of blur, I’m afraid.”

She sniffled. 

“Then can you bring us both some tea?”

“Of course, Christine.”

He rose from the couch once more and went to the kitchen, leaving her alone with her thoughts. 

It had been a very trying day - but also a very enlightening one, as well. A recurring thought as she had walked the rooms of his house looking for his body was that of deep regret. Regret for all the things they would never get to do together, regret for all the things she’d never get to say to him, regret for the future they would now never spend together. How long had she agonized over the eventual choice she’d have to make between him and Raoul? And here it had seemed some outside force had finally made the choice for her, yet she felt no relief, no sense of a settled question. The wheel of fate had spun and chosen for her, and all she could feel was the desperate realization that it had chosen _wrong_. 

She wanted to spend her life with Erik. She wanted to wake up next to him every morning, wanted to come home to him each night after a long day on stage, wanted to share each moment with him and him alone. She wanted to feel those chilled lips against her own. 

The thought that none of that would ever come to pass had been utterly crushing. 

Before today she had assumed she had time, that if she waited long enough one day all the pieces would line up and that future would just _happen_. Although nothing had actually happened to Erik - he was fine! They were both fine! - it had been a startling realization that she _didn’t_ have time, that if there was a future she truly wanted, she would have to reach out and take it instead of just waiting for it to happen. If she wanted to be with him - if she loved him as more that just her teacher - she had to tell him. 

He walked back into the room, carrying a tray with two teacups and plates of buttered toast with jam. He sat next to her once more - maybe a little father away than he had been - and placed the tray on the table in front of them. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated. 

Was she certain? Was she very certain? That was not the kind of thing one could walk back from once it was said. To say she loved him like that and then to realize otherwise in a few months truly would be the death of him. She had just had a shock, after all - she had fully expected to find him lifeless in his home, and then to see him alive and well-

It would not be too much of a stretch to assume that her feelings might be the result of the mental and emotional strain. _Of course_ she might feel that she loved him after such a thing had occurred, of course she’d be overwhelmed and grateful and wouldn’t it make sense if her head was just a little bit muddled and confused?

She couldn’t tell him yet. She had to be sure. 

He handed her a handkerchief and she smiled sadly. 

“I’m sure I must look a fright,” she said apologetically as she wiped at her face. 

“You always look lovely to me, Christine,” he said softly, looking down at his tea. 

She clutched the handkerchief in her trembling hands, a few more tears leaking out of her eyes and blurring her vision. How hard it was going to be to keep this from him, to hold back from saying those words she knew he longed to hear. 

“Did I interrupt your composing terribly?” she asked instead. 

He hesitated. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how hard it is for you to get the inspiration back once you’re interrupted in the middle of it.”

“It’s alright, sweet,” he leaned forward to reach a hand towards her face, cupping it gently and brushing a thumb over her cheekbone, wiping away the tears there. “You’re more important to me than any composition, you know.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she leaned her face into his hand. She suddenly realized that in his haste to get her a blanket, he had gotten one from his own room. It was permeated with the scent of his cologne and she breathed in breathed deeply, clinging to the blanket as she longed to cling to him. 

He slowly drew his hand back - _he_ certainly couldn’t be blamed for how she had leaned into his touch, but all the same, he knew he needed to stop _now_. 

Her eyes opened wide. An idea had occurred to her. 

“Erik,” she said with a sudden urgency. “Can I stay down here until opening night? With you?”

Erik hesitated, baffled. 

“I thought- isn’t opening night still two weeks away?”

She nodded. 

“Christine... two weeks?” 

She pouted, and whatever thin scrap of objection Erik had been barely holding on to was lost. 

“I don’t care that it’s two weeks, Erik - I’ve stayed here plenty of times before, it’s no different, really. Do _you_ mind having me here that long?”

If it were up to Erik, she would never leave his home - but he wisely chose to keep that but if information from her. 

“No, my dear, I don’t mind at all. As long as you don’t think you’ll grow sick of me?” 

He framed the fear as a jest, but she took it seriously, perhaps sensing the very real vulnerability underneath his tone, and she shook her head solemnly. 

“I won’t grow sick of you,” she promised. 

He nodded, unsure of what to say. Two weeks. He felt nearly giddy with delight. Fourteen days. Fourteen evenings to sit by the fire with her, fourteen mornings to eat breakfast together, fourteen nights of knowing she was asleep mere meters away from him. Two weeks of Christine, here in his home, with him. Oh, it was wondrous indeed. 

The reality of it came crashing down on him. 

“Oh,” he said suddenly, pulled from his daydreams. “I’ll have to go to the market and get enough supplies for the both of us.”

He had been meaning to go to the market soon anyway, but with Christine here he’d need more food than for just him. Perhaps he’d get something special to make, something unusual that she’d enjoy. He stood, his mind already filling with ideas and compiling a shopping list. 

She tried to stand as well, getting a little tangled in the blanket but unwilling to remove it from her person. 

“I’ll go with you,” she quickly supplied. 

He frowned. 

“Christine,” his tone was firm. “No. You’ve just had a fright, dearest. You need to rest. I want you to take a little nap, please, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back again, and I promise we’ll spend the entire fortnight together if you wish it.”

She sighed, but knew he was probably right. She did feel rather exhausted. She let him escort her to her bedroom, where he made sure she was settled and placed another cup of tea on her nightstand table. 

“You can change, if you wish,” he looked away, his cheeks slightly coloring at his terribly forward words. “I want you to be comfortable and able to rest.”

She nodded again. 

“Thank you, Erik.”

He gave a curt nod of his own and exited with his assurances that he would return soon. 

“Wait!” she sprang up and called out. 

He returned quickly, a look of concern on his face. 

“Will you- will you deliver a letter for me? Just to the post, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Of course, Christine. It’s no trouble at all.”

He waited patiently outside her door as she sat at the little desk in her room and scrawled a long explanation to Raoul - who would surely be confused and upset and worried sick if she suddenly disappeared without a trace for two weeks. He wasn’t expected back until opening night, but she knew now that plans had ways of changing, and she didn’t want a repeat of what had happened last time. She couldn’t send it to him in the mountains, but she could send it to his brother, who would make certain he would get it as soon as he came home. She couldn’t tell him the details, not exactly, but she did say that she wouldn’t be able to see or contact him until after the premier of the opera, and reassured him that she was perfectly fine but needed time to herself to prepare for her big role. 

Big role indeed. She glanced over at Erik. If she was correct in her understanding of her own emotions, this might be the biggest role she had ever - or would ever - undertake in her entire life. The role of a wife was not a role that one took on without being absolutely certain. 

She sealed the envelope tightly and hurried over to Erik, handing it to him. He took it and gave the barest glance to its destination, and she could see his jaw clench as he realized that it was addressed to de Chagny, but he took it without complaint and promised to deliver it to the postal office. 

She closed her door, but didn’t lock it, and without waiting for him to even leave the house entirely she began to shuck off layers of her outer clothing until she was only in her chemise and drawers and stockings. She pulled a nightgown on overtop of these and then threw back the covers on her bed. She carefully placed Erik’s blanket around her as she settled onto the bed before pulling the rest of the blankets over top of the cocoon of his blanket she had nestled herself in. 

She sighed deeply as her eyes closed, drifting off to sleep, enveloped by the scent of him. The last thought that floated through her mind before she gave in to slumber was curiosity about what it might feel like to fall asleep in his arms.


	10. Chapter 10

His hand shook just slightly as he dropped off the letter at the post. De Chagny. He sneered, but he knew the anger was only masking hurt. Could he not even have the simple joy of two weeks with Christine without having to be reminded of the boy? Seeing the name on the envelope as she had handed it to him had certainly burst the starry eyed bubble he had constructed around himself thinking about the next two weeks. But really, he shouldn’t have been surprised - life was filled with proverbial de Chagnys always ready and waiting to intrude on every moment of happiness and trample it carelessly until you were left with nothing. 

Perhaps that was unfair of him. She was staying with him, not the boy. She had cried for _him_, not the boy. She had touched him so freely in a way that sent a shiver down his spine at the mere memory of it. 

She probably touched the boy, too, and that made him uneasy. He tried to think of something else. There, the letter was in the post, he didn’t have to see it anymore - it was almost as if it wasn’t even real anymore. He’d done just as she had asked of him, even though it had occurred to him to drop the letter in the Seine instead. Would she be proud of him, that he had refrained from dropping the letter in the river? Or would she still be disappointed that he had even considered it? He sighed and tried to focus on his grocery shopping. 

Two weeks was a long time. Two weeks with Christine - she would have a rehearsal now and then, of course, but she’d probably come straight back afterwards. He began to feel giddy once more, a smile coming to his face as he picked out foods at the market for them to eat. He was limited by the amount he could carry - and he couldn’t carry anything very heavy, not anymore - but he found some things he thought she’d enjoy. 

He was thankful that he managed to complete the trip without incident, although he didn’t get enough to last them the entire fortnight so he knew he would have to go out again at some later point. He returned home as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake her. 

She was, however, already awake, and she jumped out of bed when she heard the soft noises of his arrival. It was as he was carefully placing the groceries on the counter that she found him in the kitchen, and she immediately went up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist in a hug, pressing herself against his side. 

He stood there a moment, baffled by such a show of affection, before he placed an arm around her, letting his hand rest on her back. His breath caught in his throat. Beneath the thin layer of her nightgown and chemise, she wasn’t wearing anything else. He had placed his hand on her back enough times before to know - he was familiar enough with the feeling of the thick fabrics of her bodices, the stiffness of her stays and corsets under his hands. But this - a mere two layers of cotton separated her and himself, and he could feel the warmth of her skin, every subtle shift of the muscles in her back. He should pull his hand away, he knew that he should, knew that it was entirely inappropriate. There was no excuse to be touching her like that once he had realized - he certainly hadn’t expected it when he had placed his hand there, and now that he knew she was practically nude underneath of his hand the only respectable thing to do was to stop touching her. 

He rubbed his hand up and down her back before using his fingertips to gently scratch between her shoulder blades. He was a despicable fiend. She gave a little squeak of pleasure and arched her back at the sensation, causing her to press even closer to him. He swallowed hard, very grateful that she was leaning against his side and not the front of him lest she realize the wicked way he reacted to her unthinking touches. 

“How was your nap, sweet?” he asked, trying to keep his voice normal. 

“Good,” she nodded and pulled away from him to help put the rest of the groceries away. 

In truth she had only slept a little while, and the rest of the time she had spent thinking. She liked to think that she was a very logical young woman. And faced with such a big decision in front of her, she decided it would be best to look at it logically. What did she want out of a relationship, what did she want in her future? Besides love, of course. 

“Erik, do you ever think you’d live in a regular house out in the world like everyone else?”

She loved staying at his house, but she couldn’t picture living there the rest of her life. It was charming and quaint for shorter stays, but to live under the ground forever, every single day? No sunlight? No fresh air? And Erik was getting older, too - such a way of living was certainly unhealthy for him. 

Erik’s brow knit - why was she asking him that? 

“I- I’m afraid I-,” he faltered. “I don’t think that’s in my future, Christine. I’ll probably live here the rest of my days.”

She frowned. That wasn’t the answer she had been hoping for. 

“You couldn’t picture yourself ever living above, then?”

He was silent a long moment. 

“If things were different, I suppose,” he said very quietly. 

She paused. 

“You mean your face?” she asked softly. 

He nodded, then shrugged. 

“Yes. Yes, or- well, if I had reason to live above.”

“What kind of reason?” she pressed. 

He didn’t reply for so long that Christine thought he was simply done talking about it - he did that on occasion, simply ended conversations in the middle of a question by not ever answering - but she wasn’t about to let a topic this important go. She was about to ask him again when he finally gave a reply. 

“A reason like another person.”

“Like a wife?” she ventured innocently. 

He dropped the bag of cookies in shock, then fretted over them a moment, making certain they hadn’t broken. 

“Yes,” he said absently, frowning hard. “Like a wife. You see, it’s not a situation likely to present itself.”

“But you would live up in a regular house, if you had a wife that wanted to do so?”

He laughed darkly. 

“Yes, Christine - I’ll live up above with my wife, right about the same time that pigs gain the ability to fly and hell freezes over. Until that moment-“ he gestured around them at his house.

She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to upset him like that. How could she explain why she had brought it up without giving away her private thoughts?

Erik, for his part, couldn’t understand why she was pressing the issue. How could he ever have a wife, or a reason to rejoin humanity? At best he was able to put in an appearance at his job and play pretend with her before she ran off to marry the boy. He knew it was coming, and soon. Hadn’t she said before that she was waiting until she was prima donna? Well, she was prima donna now. The boy would probably propose on opening night, and he was certain that she would accept. 

Lost in his dark thoughts, he slammed the cupboard shut harder than he meant to, and the sharp noise of it made Christine jump. 

She searched for something to say, but realized he was likely too far gone into his mind to even hear her if she did find the right words to sooth him. He slammed another cabinet and she scurried out of the kitchen. She wasn’t afraid of his anger - she’d seen him in enough foul moods to know that he was far more likely to take his anger out on himself than on her - but she didn’t like being around him when he was like that, all the same. She settled herself in the sitting with a book and a sigh, waiting for him to cool down. 

Erik didn’t even notice she was gone until he finally had put all the food away. His heart sank. The boy was going to propose in fourteen days, he was certain, and this was likely the last time Christine would ever be staying here. Perhaps that was what had been in her letter - perhaps she had even even proposed to Raoul instead, and she was going to elope with him after her first show. He’d never see her again. And now - now in his last handful of days with her, he was too consumed with his own self-hatred to even notice if she was in the room or not. Had he frightened her? He hadn’t meant to, but then again, his life seemed full of negative effects that he hadn’t intended. 

He went looking for her, but didn’t have to go very far. He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, gripping the doorframe and feeling uncertain. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

She put down her book. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you with my question, Erik. Are you okay?”

He nodded, and tentatively entered the room. Hadn’t they just shared something in the kitchen before all that? He wished they would have more moments like that, like when she had hugged him upon his return, but sometimes he just didn’t know how to turn off his negative thoughts. She hadn’t meant anything by her question, even if it had stung him. She was a good girl, she’d never do something to purposely harm him. He wished he had better control over his emotions. 

She patted the cushion next to her. 

“Sit with me?”

He sat down, noticing she had put her dressing gown on. 

“What book are you reading?” he asked gently. 

She smiled as she showed him, and they talked about the story for a little while. 

She didn’t enjoy his bouts of anger, but he had gotten better with taming them over the years. He’d never aimed his terrible moods at her, either, which was a relief. She wished he was a little less moody, but she knew she it was something she could deal with in her life - it certainly wasn’t something she thought would stand in the way of marrying him. 

“What were your plans for the rest of the evening?” she asked. 

“To spend time with you,” he answer quickly. 

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. 

“No,” she shook her head. “I mean what were your plans before I spoiled them?”

“You improved them, my dear,” he insisted, and she laughed. 

“Really, Erik, I mean it.”

He thought. 

“Just reading, I suppose.”

“Hm. Well, would you like to go for a walk this evening?”

“A walk?”

She nodded. 

“We could take a walk together. There’s never too many people out just after sunset, and it’ll be dark enough, I think.”

He debated himself on the matter. To go for walks with her was something he had always wanted - but he had already been so active that day, walking so much in the market. 

“We don’t have to, it’s alright,” Christine offered, sensing his hesitation. “We can stay in, if you prefer.”

“No, let’s go for a walk,” he decided. 

The chance might not come again, for any number of reasons. 

“Oh, I’ll-“ she blushed a little. “Ill have to go dress, excuse me.”

It was a little over an hour when the two of them finally stepped out into the street, both dressed quite finely. He, in his hat and cape, with a cane that was no longer just for fashion, and she, holding on to his arm, wearing a lovely dark blue dress and lace gloves, her hair pinned up elaborately. 

He kept the pace slow and steady - they wouldn’t get very far, but it lessened his risk of an attack and she didn’t seem to mind too much. Just as she had said, there were not too many people about, and no one seemed to notice the strange couple as they made their way down the avenue. 

She paused on a street corner, looking up at the stars. They were so very lovely, it almost brought a tear to her eye. 

“Aren’t they beautiful?” she whispered, and Erik glanced up at them for a moment. 

“Not as beautiful as you, Christine,” he replied easily, honestly. 

She sucked in a breath, and their eyes met. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and swallowed against the lump in her throat. 

She should tell him. Why wait? She could hold off and weigh her options, but she already knew in heart that it was true. 

It was a perfect moment, the stars twinkling up above like a curtain in front of a stage, the gentle breeze with just a hint of a chill that made her nose and cheeks pink, the way the sliver of moon reflected off of his white mask and made the beadwork on his cape sparkle - the very atmosphere was filled with magic. 

“Erik,” she started. “Erik, I-“

All at once there came a loud clatter of a large horse pulling a water pump cart, with a number of firemen both on the cart and running after it. They passed by them with a great racket of shouts and hollers as they rushed towards whatever emergency they were headed to. 

Erik’s eyes lit up and he turned to watch them go down the street. 

“Ha ha ha! Christine, look - there must be something on fire somewhere!”

She sighed deeply and passed a hand her face. The moment was over. 

He turned back to her, delight still sparkling in his eyes. 

“Now, what was it you were saying?”

She pressed her lips together, pouting. 

“I’m cold,” she looked down at her feet. 

“Oh, sweet-“

He unclasped his cape, and with a flourish he removed it and draped it around her own shoulders. She looked up at him, surprised. He redid the clasp, his fingertips just brushing the bare skin of the base of her throat. 

“There,” he said tenderly. “Better?”

She could only nod. They resumed their walk, starting on the journey home, and as she glanced up at him now and then, she noticed he was grinning. 

“Erik,” she said evenly. “Are you still laughing about the fire carriage?”

He quickly settled his face into a neutral expression. 

“_No_,” he said carefully. “I am merely thinking about what might have been on fire.”

“You are the worst,” she shook her head, but she was smiling, and she leaned her head against his arm a moment to let him know she was only teasing. 

Erik always seemed cold to the touch, but the silk lining of his cape was warm - not to mention the warmth it brought to her face to be wearing something of his. Should she still tell him that she loved him? Should she wait just a little longer? She wanted to tell him when the timing seemed right, but it didn’t seem right, not after the firemen had gone by and Erik’s gleeful appreciation of destruction had taken over (she had seen him, once, with a little wooden house he had built, one the size of a loaf of bread - she had asked him what it was for and he had replied _for this_ and proceeded to place it in the lit fireplace, where he had watched, fascinated, as it went up in flames, and she had been a little put off by the whole thing). She sighed a little and pulled the cape around her tighter. Although it only went to just below the bottom of his knees, on her it very nearly touched the ground, and she was careful to make sure it didn’t drag. 

They made their way back to his house, where in the entryway he paused to help her take the cape off once more. 

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, and very nearly another three words that she longed to say, but he turned from her too quickly, as though he were suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of such an action. 

“Think nothing of it,” he murmured. 

They ate dinner together, and all throughout Christine couldn’t help the smile on her face and the flutter in her heart. Would they always have meals like this if they were married? Delicious food and anecdotes that made her laugh? Erik smiling adoringly at her as she told him some little story or observation? She hoped so. She wanted every meal for the rest of her life to be like this. 

“I suppose I shall no longer keep you from your plans of reading for the evening,” she teased as she helped with clearing the dishes. “But would you mind terribly if I joined you?”

“Not at all - my house is your house, remember,” he chuckled, and she ducked her head to hide her grin. 

How right he was, though he didn’t yet realize it. 

They sat in their usual places in the sitting room, he in his chair and she on the couch, each with a book in hand. Christine read hers diligently at first, but began to grow a little restless. It was late, but she didn’t feel tired at all. She glanced up at Erik every now and then, but he seemed absorbed in his own book. She shifted around on the couch, biting her lip. 

She couldn’t say what came over her, not really. She had never been particularly bold with men, not the way Sorelli and some of the other girls were. Perhaps it was the pent up energy from her failed attempt at a proposal earlier, perhaps it was how handsome he had looked in the moonlight. Perhaps it was any number of things, really. 

She turned just a little, setting her book down on the cushion next to her. Erik glanced over, his gaze resting on her for less than a second before he was back to his book. She slid each of her little shoes off and pushed them just slightly under the couch, her stockinged feet now resting on the carpet. His next glance lasted a heartbeat longer and seemed to linger on her feet. 

She was not doing anything untoward, she told herself. He had said it was her house, had he not? What was the harm in making one comfortable inside of one’s own house?

Her hand strayed up to her hair and pulled out a pin. 

Erik’s eyes focused on that hand with great intensity. 

She continued to innocently pull pin after pin from her hair, pretending not to notice that Erik was now openly staring with only the thinnest of pretenses that he was still reading the book which he held in front of him. 

He sank a little lower in his chair, strategically crossing his legs. He had _tried_ not to look, but oh- he did so love her flaxen hair. He couldn’t decide if she was being a naive innocent child about it or if she _knew_ and was, in fact, playing a vixen on purpose. 

The last of the pins removed, she glanced behind herself at him, eyelashes lowered coquettishly. She ran a hand through her hair and shook it out, causing his breath to stick in his throat. Surely-? No, it was absurd to think she could possibly know. But then again-

She turned once more, facing him again, running her fingers idly through her curls and pulling the tangles out. She seemed unfazed by how shamelessly he was staring, by the hungry glint in his eye. Her heart nearly skipped a beat and she wondered just how far she was willing to take this little game of hers. What would Sorelli do? Probably sit on his lap. What would he do if she were to do that? She wasn’t certain. Well, actually - she had a fairly good idea of what he might do, based on how he was looking at her. 

Perhaps that would be how she could tell him. She would sit down on his lap and tell him how she felt about him, and then she would finally know what it was like to kiss him, and then- she blushed at that thought. Erik had always been a gentleman with her, but would he still continue to be if she were to do that? She half wanted to find out, and half hoped that he wouldn’t be a gentleman about it. 

“Erik-“ she whispered.

“Yes, Christine?” 

His voice was practically a purr, and suddenly her nerve failed her. She quickly withdrew her hands from her hair, squeezing them into fists in her skirts. Well, she thought ruefully, better her nerve fail her now than _after_ she had gone through with her wanton course of action - it would have been terribly awkward to explain that she had in fact changed her mind while in the midst of sitting on him. 

“This was a lovely evening,” she tried to keep the waver from her voice. How nervous she felt compared to just a few moments ago! “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Of course,” he replied simply. He felt a little foolish for thinking that she _might_ have on the verge of saying something else - what would she possibly have said? It was enough of a stretch to assume that she held some sort of love for him - it seemed downright impossible that she could ever feel _that_ kind of love for him. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she kept her eyes lowered as she stood and made her way for the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Christine.”

She hurried off to bed, where she marveled at her own forwardness that evening. Had she really been about to-? She pulled the sheets up to her nose, embarrassed. Her carefully laid plans of making very certain they were compatible in their goals for the future before telling him how she felt had nearly been for naught. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if, before the fortnight was over, they would end up sharing the bed in her little room. 

She fell asleep shortly, content with the knowledge that there was likely very little that could possibly come between them - she wanted a fairly normal life in a regular, aboveground house with a husband who was able to accompany her on walks and shopping trips and dinners out, a husband who held a normal job and was supportive of her own career. Erik seemed to be all of those things, as far as she could tell. She’d surely tell him before the fortnight was over. She wasn’t certain how or when or if they’d be officially married, or where they would live after they moved up above, but surely those were details that could be worked out later - she’d live with him in his little underground house until then. 

Erik stayed in the sitting room long after she had gone to bed. He flipped through the pages of his book and sighed, his reading long forgotten. What on earth had come over him to ever think that she would feel that way about him? How dare he stare at her so brazenly! He could only hope she was innocent enough to not realize, although he _had_ been rather conspicuous about it. Still- he felt conflicted. She might be innocent, but surely she was not so innocent as to be completely unaware of how- how _provocative_ it was for a woman to let her hair down like that with a man watching? Surely not at her age? She _must_ have known - but it made no sense. Why would she do that, if she knew? She wasn’t a cruel girl, she would never mock him like that - but if she wasn’t mocking him, and she wasn’t simply being careless, then it only stood to reason that she had been actually _flirting_ him - but _that_ was certainly impossible. If she wasn’t cruel, and she wasn’t flirting, then he was once again faced with the simple fact that she hadn’t even been thinking when she had removed her shoes and let her hair down.

He ran a hand over his face. He was a genius, but so often the little interactions of humanity, so commonplace to others, were a mystery to him. He stared at her little shoes half tucked under his couch (there was no need to be ashamed of staring now, she would never know). He had the distinct feeling he would not be going to sleep that night - he had work to occupy to his mind, and besides, how could he not want to extend the day that had so graciously offered him so many precious memories? 

He tossed the book aside and rose, intending to go his workroom but hesitating as he looked at the couch. Just there, on the cushion she had been sitting on, was a little pile of hairpins. He frowned, that all-too-familiar feeling of guilt washing over him as he slowly approached the couch. Once in front of the couch, he ran a gentle finger over the little pieces of metal that had not so long ago been holding Christine’s hair in place. Before he could scold himself too much, he quickly grabbed a single pin and tucked it into his pocket. _Now_ he felt ashamed. But surely she would not miss just one pin, after all. He clenched his hand around it as though he were afraid that it wasn’t safe even there, as though it might slip out of his pocket and disappear. He hurried into his workroom, pretending he hadn’t done anything at all after he had put his book down - but all through the night as he worked on his sketches and blueprints his hand would stray every so often to that hairpin in his pocket. 

Christine slept late into the next morning. It had been an exceedingly eventful previous day, so she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised. She stretched and yawned and took her time dressing, electing to only pull her hair back with ribbon. She blushed as she thought of last night, of how she had behaved and what she had nearly done. She vowed that she would keep better control over herself today, and waited until her blush had faded before venturing out to find her beloved host. 

“Erik?” she called out as she left her room. “I’m up, finally.”

She passed the sitting room, the last few embers on the hearth dying, the room empty - and her own pair of shoes sitting there on the floor, reminding her of her brazenness and half-failed attempt at seduction. She checked his workroom, which was messier than usual, but was distinctly lacking in Erik. She raised an eyebrow at the empty kitchen, and found the other rooms the same. She stared down the long hallway a moment before she started towards the only room she hadn’t checked yet - his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be less frequent for the foreseeable future :’)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u like angst

“Erik?” she called out for him again, and again there was no answer. 

His bedroom door had been left surprisingly ajar. She hesitated only a moment - it was practically open, for goodness’s sake! and she very nearly intended on marrying him, besides - before she pushed it all the way open and stepped inside. 

In the middle of the room sat the coffin. She swallowed hard. She had known this was here, of course, and that he used it as bed, but it was still a sight to see. 

Especially with his arm hanging over the side of it. 

He was lying face down inside of it, as though he’d haphazardly fallen inside. She mused that it surely couldn’t be comfortable for his arm to be lifted over the edge like that. Her nervousness grew as she quietly approached him - it was unsettling to see him so, a mockery of what was surely to come sooner or later. She held her breath. Was he breathing? 

She glanced down at the mask that sat just outside the coffin, as though it had fallen from his hand before he had fallen into bed. 

She placed a hand on his bony shoulder and shook him as gently as she could. 

“Erik?” she whispered. 

With a suddenness that made her heart jump his hand that was outside the coffin shot up and gripped her forearm with an unforgiving hold, yanking her down into the coffin with him, his other hand coming up towards her neck. For a split second she was certain he intended to choke her, but at the very last second before that happened his hand relaxed and instead touched her cheek with cold and trembling fingers. 

“Christine?” he blinked, his voice still thick with sleep, utter confusion written across his strange features. 

She struggled to catch her breath, not only from the fright but also because he had pulled her down with such a violence that her ribs had been struck quite harshly against the wooden side of the coffin, and the pain was still radiating across her torso. 

“Christine,” his eyes began to fill with tears. “Christine, I’ve hurt you.”

He released his grip on her arm, horrified at the bruises already beginning to bloom there. 

“Oh!” he sobbed. How could he have done this to her?! 

“Christine, you’re going upstairs immediately. You aren’t safe with me. Having you down here was a mistake.”

“Erik, no!” she finally managed to say, but winced and placed a hand over her ribs. “I don’t want to go upstairs!”

“How can you say that? Look what I’ve already done to you!”

“I’m fine, Erik, really,” she pleaded as she rubbed at her wrist. 

“You might think you’re fine now, Christine, but what about the next time? And the time after that?”

The vague threat of his words hung in the air and she didn’t know how to reply. 

“I’ve already harmed you once, it will happen again, you know it will. You might not be so lucky the next time. I was an assassin, Christine. I might end up killing you before I even realize it’s you.”

So he _had_ meant to choke her, then. 

“You would never hurt me, Erik, I know you wouldn’t,” her words sound weak in light of the fact that she had already been hurt by him, but she took the revelation of his past line of work in stride. 

He shook his head sadly. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she asserted. 

“Well you should be,” his eyes fell to the marks on her arm. 

“I startled you, that was all. Erik, please, listen to me - you’ve _never_ done anything like this before in all the time I’ve stayed here. You’re not who you once were. We can work around this. It will be alright, I promise you.”

She awkwardly tried to rearrange herself in the coffin, trying to not put too much pressure on his legs where she was laying, and scooted up closer to him, placing her arms around his shoulders and resting her head on his chest. 

“It’s alright, Erik. Nothing like that will happen again, we will make sure of it. I’m staying here with you, nothing can change that,” she murmured against his shirt. 

He let his arms - his wicked, murderous arms - wrap around her and gently held her close as he wept into her hair. She was the most precious thing in the entire world to him, and he had marred her poor, innocent body. How could he live with himself now that he had done this to her? 

He knew with a fierce certainty now that so many things he had pictured would never - should never - come to pass. If after so many years that was still how he reacted to being startled when he was asleep, then they could never sleep in the same bed together. It simply wasn’t safe for her. He knew that most married couples had separate beds, separate bedrooms, but he didn’t want a life like that. He didn’t want to be the kind of brute that simply took his satisfaction and then left her all alone. No - he wanted to make love to Christine Daaé and hold her in his arms afterwards, but how he could do that if there was even the smallest possibility that he might fall asleep afterwards? That would never be an option, now. He couldn’t even fantasize about it anymore - because now he knew the sick reality of what would come after, of how she’d curl up to him in the afterglow of bliss and his half-asleep mind would suddenly put him back into the days of Persia and he’d end up choking the breath out of his own wife. It made him feel ill just to think about it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered through his tears. “I’m so sorry.”

The sickening symbolism what all had happened had not been lost on him - her inquisitiveness and concern over his own wellbeing had led her here, and in return he had battered her and dragged her down into a coffin with him. Was that not their entire relationship summed up? 

“Erik, I think we need to have a talk, at some point. It doesn’t have to be right now, of course, but soon. You know I don’t want to pry into your personal history or make you tell me things that you’d rather not, but... We must talk about _this_, I think.”

She glanced up at him before continuing. He didn’t see her looking at him, as his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, tears leaking out of them and running across both the smooth side of his face and the twisted side, but he did feel the movement of her head as she looked up. 

“I intend on staying here the rest of these two weeks, you know, and after that - well, of course I’ll be coming back to stay with you again and again in the future, too. So I think it’s important that I know what exactly might startle you, so I can avoid doing any of those things. That way we can avoid my getting hurt, and we can also avoid you shedding any more tears.”

She reached a hand up to his cheek - she purposely chose the scarred side - and wiped away the wetness on his cheekbone. 

“You are too good to a wretch like me, Christine,” he murmured and sighed. 

He pulled back from her and reached for his mask, slipping it back on. 

“We can talk later,” he told her. “But right now you need to put something on those bruises.”

He helped her out of the coffin and found a small towel which he ran under the tap. 

“Here, put this on your arm,” he handed it to her. 

She shivered a little at the coldness of the wet towel, but she trusted Erik to know what was best for her injury, minor though it was. He looked away, the sight of the her arm with bruises shaped like his fingers making the bile rise in his throat. 

“Are we still doing a lesson today?”

He nodded absentmindedly. 

“Later, my dear. Not right now.”

He searched in his bathroom a moment before bringing her a jar of salve, which he instructed her to apply to the bruises. She took the jar with her to her own room, closing the door behind her. 

With shaking fingers she unbuttoned her bodice, threw her corset on the floor, and pulled her chemise up. For all her words to Erik in an attempt to soothe and calm him from what she knew would be a crushing experience, she was actually quite shaken. She ran a hand over the bruise on her torso, horrified, as she examined it in the mirror. What if he had broken her ribs? And so close to opening night, when she had to sing? What if he hadn’t realized it was her in time?

Her eyes filled with hot tears that spilled down her cheeks. She loved him, and of course he hadn’t meant to hurt her - but this was the one thing she would not compromise on. If her safety was in jeopardy, intentionally or not, she would not - could not - stay with him. She felt like her heart was breaking, but she would not put her life at risk out of love. 

Life was bitterly unfair. She rubbed at her eyes before applying the salve and redressing. She stayed in her room a little longer, until her eyes were no longer red and watery - Erik already felt badly enough about it, he didn’t need to know that she had cried over the matter. 

How long had she been staying with him without incident? But she had never tried to wake him before. Did he have other triggers that might set him off? If she had managed to go this many years without discovering he couldn’t be awoken suddenly, then it was highly possible that there were other things she hadn’t discovered about him yet either. She sighed deeply, placing her hands on her head as she thought about the complicated situation. 

She was probably safe to continue doing lessons with him. She supposed it stood to reason that she was safe to stay in his house, provided she didn’t go near him again when he was sleeping, and assuming there was nothing else that set him off like that. But how would that work, if they were married? She didn’t know if it could. It would be a strange arrangement, certainly. 

He spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon puttering about the house, trying to keep busy but accomplishing nothing. Christine settled herself on the couch to read, and Erik kept coming in the room every so often, sometimes pretending to look for some item or object, sometimes to merely stand in the doorway and look at her. She glanced up at him every time he did so. It was as though he wanted to be near her to make certain she was alright, but didn’t trust himself to get too close. 

He stood in the doorway, gripping the doorframe and letting his eyes mull over her so mournfully before suddenly turning and fleeing from her presence. She sighed. At least their lesson would be soon - music was always a good distraction for him. Perhaps he’d manage to get his mind off the unpleasant business from earlier once she started singing. 

Finally he entered the room, his demeanor cool and aloof and professional, but she could see the painful regret still hiding in his eyes when he glanced at her. 

“Are you ready for your lesson?” he asked. 

She nodded eagerly and stood up, taking her place near the piano. He sat at the bench, flexed his hands and then began to play. Christine took a deep breath to begin - or at least she tried to. 

Her breath caught in her throat and she made a pained little noise, her hand flying up to her bruised ribs. 

Erik stopped immediately, turning to look at her for a long moment. 

She struggled to find something to say, something to tell him so he wouldn’t be upset with himself - but there was nothing to say. 

He turned back to the piano, swiftly closing the lid over the keys before he fled the room. 

She couldn’t sing, and it was all his fault. 

He locked himself into his bedroom and paced. He would leave Paris - he would go somewhere where he could never hurt her again - she could find a new tutor, someone who wouldn’t nearly murder her on accident, and she was already prima donna anyway - but then he remembered. Remembered how just the day before she had cried over the prospect of losing him forever. How could he leave her like that?

He sank to the ground, his back against the door, and rested his forehead on his knees. Christine seemed to hold some sort of love for him, so he couldn’t just abandon her - hadn’t he already caused her enough pain? He was a wretch and a monster, truly, but if he held even the very smallest amount of space in her heart, then he would do whatever it took to be worthy of that, whatever he could to better himself. He _must_ find a way to keep what had happened from ever happening again. Hadn’t she said she intended to keep staying over? Staying with him was what she wanted (for some unfathomable reason), and he was loath to ignore her wishes and replace them with his own, especially if his were based on fear (rational though that fear may be). He would find a way to fix this. He would find a way to keep her safe. 

Christine waited in the sitting room a while, trying to stretch as best she could in the hopes that the muscle across her ribs wouldn’t cramp up and make her breath stick again. It became apparent, however, that Erik was not coming back anytime soon. 

She closed her eyes, trying to keep the fear at bay. What if she couldn’t sing at all, not in time for the next rehearsal the day after tomorrow? She didn’t know what she would do in that case. She stayed in the sitting room, working on being able to breath deeply without any hitches, and eventually managed to sing a little before her mind began to calm. 

Still inside his room, Erik could hear her singing as the sweet sound of her voice floated through wood of the door he was leaning against. He placed a hand over his eyes as he wept. His poor injured songbird. She deserved so much better than him. 

Christine was left alone with the quiet house and only her thoughts to keep her company the rest of the afternoon, for Erik did not leave his room until it was time for supper. 

He said nothing as he strode into the kitchen and quickly prepared the meal. Christine felt oddly quiet herself as she approached the dining room, noticing immediately that he had only set one place at the table. 

He pulled out the chair for her after setting the food on the table, giving her only the smallest of glances before turning to leave once more. 

She reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it just a little. 

“Please,” she said. “Eat with me?”

He hesitated, then nodded and sat down, and she breathed a sigh of relief - who knew how long he’d lock himself away for if she didn’t put a stop to it? 

He noticed that she must have changed dresses at some point that afternoon - she now had long sleeves that covered the bruises on her arm, but he could still see them quite clearly in his mind’s eye, and that was enough. 

The meal was awkward as it started out. Neither one seemed keen on speaking, but Christine knew she had to ask. She had had plenty of time to think things over. 

“So,” she cleared her throat. “I did not know that you had such an... unusual, line of work.”

Their eyes met briefly, hers somber and his full of guilt. 

“That’s not suitable dinner table conversation, Christine.”

“I want to know about it,” she insisted. 

“It is in the past,” he said stiffly. 

She stirred her soup slowly. 

“H-how long has it been since you’ve... worked?”

He considered it. 

“I stopped several years before you were born, I’m certain. I’ve no interest in doing that sort of thing again, I assure you.”

She nodded. It was strange to think of Erik like that. She had always felt so safe around him, and now to find _this_ out? She studied him for a moment. He was still Erik, still her Erik that she held very dear. And that was so very long ago. But still - they had much to discuss. 

“What made you want to... do that kind of work?”

Erik sighed. He had always dreaded having this conversation with her, for how could she ever want to be around him after she found out? But he couldn’t lie to her. 

“The opportunity arose, I suppose. I was a young man and cared about very little. I didn’t think much of others - they saw no reason to consider me or my feelings, so what mercy should I have spared for them?” 

He glanced up at her, at how her brow was furrowed and her mouth turned down in a frown. It seemed like such a weak excuse, now - so far removed from those days and the unhealthy logic of his irrational and youthful mind that had been so blinded with hate. 

“I worked that way for several years in the Shah of Persia’s court,” he continued. “It was not the first time I’d killed, but it was the first time I’d done so that wasn’t out of self defense. So I worked for the Shah, doing whatever he requested of me, putting away political enemies and dissidents. But I grew weary of it. And I could see that the same fate was swiftly coming for myself. I wanted something normal, some kind of job that didn’t give me nightmares and haunt what little conscience I had. So I left while I still could. I am not that man anymore.”

He paused, recalling those days. 

“I am not proud of it, Christine.”

There had been a time that he _had_ been proud of it - when he was young and in the midst of it. He was good at what he did, and it had earned him the Shah’s favor (for the time) and a great deal of money and privilege - things he hadn’t had in life before picking up the Punjab Lasso. But by the time he left Persia, he was only disgusted with it. All of those people had been _people_ \- perhaps they been someone’s Christine, or they had a Christine of their own that they were trying to protect - people like him who wanted just to live, people not like him with families and friends and loved ones, families he’d torn a hole into that could never be mended. And for what? What made the Shah so right, just because he happened to be in power? If one of his enemies had been in power, then it would have been the Shah who was wicked and deserved the Lasso. All moral quandaries that had rarely plagued Erik until the meddling Daroga had started playing at being Erik’s conscience - all moral quandaries he never thought he’d have to concern himself with until Nadir gently yet continually reminded him of his humanity. A demon or an angel of death cared little for humanity and it’s concerns - but Nadir never treated him as such, and it was difficult to play the monster when being treated as a man. 

Erik lowered his eyes. 

“There are many, many thing in my past that I’m not proud of. The only thing I’ve ever been proud of in my life is you. Shaping your voice,” he said quietly. 

She felt her heart twist. She loved him, and this didn’t change that. 

“What about the opera house?” she teased gently. 

He looked up, surprised. She was smiling, though she still looked a little sad. He felt his own lips twist into a near smile. 

“The opera house is a distant second, really. You and the Populaire, then.”

The awkwardness began to fade, and they ate in silence for a little while. 

“I can still sing,” she finally said. “You didn’t- nothing’s broken, I mean.”

“I heard. Your singing, that is.”

“Do you always react that way when you’re awoken?” she asked meekly. 

“I don’t know. There’s never been anyone to wake me up before.”

She nodded thoughtfully. 

It was something he had considered. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to come in his room while he was asleep - that wasn’t something he had ever expected before. But if now he knew... If he began to expect that there was someone there with him, would he still react the same, or would he grow used to the idea that he was safe and the person trying to wake him or touch him was friendly? 

He had put his vast intellect to good use in between bouts of crying that afternoon, but the finishing touch of his plan and new invention would have to come later, after Christine was asleep. 

“Is there anything else that might frighten you like that? Or is just being startled awake?”

“I cannot think of anything else,” he said slowly. “I am generally not caught off guard. Unless... well, if I felt trapped somehow, I suppose I would not react very well. Or if I thought I was in actual danger. But do not believe a situation like that would arise with _you_ as the cause.”

“I shall try not to trap you, then,” she said wryly. 

When they had finished eating, she let him clear the plates away and do the dishes himself - he normally put up a fuss when she tried to help him with those tasks, and she thought perhaps it might help to ease his guilty conscience if he could do something for her. He seemed grateful enough as she watched from the kitchen doorway, at least. 

“Are we doing a lesson tomorrow? I’m sure I’ll feel up to it by then,” she asked. 

He turned from the sink, incredulous. 

“You wish to do a lesson tomorrow? With me?”

She nodded. 

He seemed at a loss. 

“Of course we can, Christine, if you wish it.”

She thanked him for dinner and went to the sitting room, where she carefully prodded the logs in the fireplace before lighting and throwing a match into the middle of them. By the time Erik entered the room, the fire was warm and glowing as she sat on the rug next to the hearth. 

“Christine,” he said gently. “Don’t you want to gather your things before I take you upstairs?”

She shot him an annoyed look. 

“I don’t need to gather my things because I’m not going up,” she said firmly. 

“You really mean to stay then? Even knowing what you know now? After having found out I’m a murderer? A madman?”

“Oh, Erik,” she said, shaking her head. “I always knew you were a madman, it’s only the murderer part that surprised me.”

His shoulders sagged and his face fell, and Christine couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. He edged closer, finally sitting down on the couch next to the rug. He twisted his hands in his cravat. 

“Always?” he asked nervously. 

She smiled kindly and placed her hand on his knee. 

“You don’t hide it very well, I’m afraid,” she told him softly, and he nodded. “But I-“ _I love you anyway_ “I don’t mind.”

He was too deep in thought to even realize where her hand was. 

“Christine, what if I hurt you again?” the question was barely a whisper, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“You won’t. We will be very careful, Angel. I won’t go in your bedroom again if you’re asleep. I won’t try to wake you up by shaking you - I’ll keep plenty of distance between us if you’re sleeping and I need something. As you said yourself, you are not that man anymore.”

He stared at the wall, his eyes unfocused as he thought about her words. He didn’t look convinced. Christine, too, was uncertain - uncertain of how to move forward now. She was quite disappointed to realize that this meant they very likely _wouldn’t_ be sharing a bed after all. She didn’t know how to bring that particular concern up with him. 

“You’ve been around me nearly seven years now, Erik,” she reminded him. “And this is the first time anything bad has happened. It’ll be alright.”

Erik stayed silent. It _wasn’t_ alright - in that split second when he had awoken, he could have seriously harmed her _or worse_. How could that ever be alright? 

He could tell from the look in her eyes, that slightly guarded look, that she was well aware of this too. He truly must hold some place in her heart, if she was still here with him after that. It made him want to fall at her feet and weep and kiss the hem of her dress. 

She removed her hand and turned to look at the fire again. 

“I think I’m rather tired this evening,” she said softly. “I’ll be retiring soon, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, sweet. Rest well, and we’ll do a lesson tomorrow,” he rose from the couch and headed for his workroom. 

Christine left for her bedroom shortly after. She took her time applying more of the salve to her bruises, which were still looked terrible and felt awful. She sighed wearily. She really would have to wait and see before she told him anything - which would be crueler? To tell him she loved him yet they could never be together, never live together normally because he might accidentally kill her? Or to let him live the rest of the days thinking that no one had ever truly loved him in that way? Life was so complicated, sometimes. She never thought love could ever be so difficult, but Erik was a difficult man, she supposed. She doubted anything had ever been easy for him. 

She fell asleep quickly that evening, her mind tired from thinking and her body needing rest to heal. Erik worked on a small contraption in his workroom, something that he had thought up during that afternoon. It took nearly two hours to find all the parts and put them together. Once it was finished he took it into his bedroom and placed it on the floor. He felt uneasy about the next part, but it had to be done. 

He approached Christine’s closed door and placed his ear up against it, trying to listen for any movement inside. There was none - she must be sleeping. He sighed, feeling as though he had violated her privacy, but his plan really couldn’t move forward unless she was fast asleep for the night. 

Content with the knowledge that she wouldn’t leave her room and become disturbed, he fished a ring of keys out of his pocket and went to the small closet that was tucked away in the corner.


	12. Chapter 12

He felt guilty as he opened the closet door and came face to face with her. He hadn’t taken her out in so long, but her sweet expression held no condemnation for him. She still smiled as prettily as ever. 

He bundled her close to him as he lifted her and carried her back to his bedroom, praying that the real Christine wouldn’t see him with _this_. He had been so careful ever since he had given her a key to the front door - he hadn’t taken the mannequin out of the closet since then, dreading that Christine might enter without warning and see the life-size doll of herself. It truly had started innocently enough - a mannequin to help him create dresses and costumes for her. It was merely a happy accident, he told himself, that it also helped to ease his loneliness at times. 

But then the real Christine had graciously filled his life with her presence, and he hadn’t been so lonely anymore. He hadn’t needed the mannequin after that, not really, not for anything other than a shape to form costumes around, and he hadn’t worked on any sewing projects in a long time. It would have been safest, perhaps, to sink it into the lake where his real darling would never have a chance to see it and become disturbed. But how could he do that to the poor mannequin? It looked just like her, after all, and how could ever bring himself to destroy something that looked like Christine? So she had stayed safely locked away in the closet with the rest of the faceless mannequins - until now. 

Now he had need of her yet again. He closed his bedroom door and this time he locked it - something he had never done before when Christine was there (the foolish hope that just perhaps she would come to his door one night and want to come in - never mind the fact that she hated his coffin and almost certainly would never willing get in it, regardless, but impossible daydreams and hopes were just that - impossible - and the thought of Christine getting in his coffin was just as absurd as the thought that she’d want to be with him in such a capacity, so really, what was the harm in leaving the door unlocked?). But Christine would definitely flee in horror if she happened to glance in at _this_. 

He propped the mannequin up against wall and left it there as he prepared for bed. Once finished with that, he faced the ersatz Christine and picked up a short length of rope. He tried to ignore the color blooming across his face as he tied the rope around her ankle - _she wasn’t real_, therefore, nothing he did to her could be considered inappropriate, not _really_, but it was still an awkward situation. He couldn’t imagine doing the same thing to the Christine who was sleeping just down the hall, tying her up like so... Or rather, he _could_, and that made it all the worse. 

“Just for the evening,” he murmured to her as he straightened up and guiltily met her painted eyes. 

He picked her up from where she leaned on the wall and ever so gently and carefully (as though to make up fo the rope tied crudely around her ankle) laid her down in his coffin. He then dragged his latest contraption to just outside the foot of the coffin and wrapped the rest of the rope around the spindle of the machine. A genius device, truly - when the gears had completed a certain number of circles, they would then twist the spindle and retract the length of rope - which then, in turn, would cause the imitation Christine to pull out of his sleeping grasp. He paused a moment to admire his handiwork. 

He was struck, suddenly, by the image of her in the coffin. How wrong it looked, how awful. Her pretty golden curls splayed about her head on the pillow, her pale blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, her body so still and unmoving. He didn’t like it. 

He quickly got in with her, hoping to dispel the thought from his mind. Settling down for the evening, or at least until a few hours from then when the machine would do it’s work and wake him, he turned the mannequin towards him so he could hold it as he slept, as one might do to a lover. 

It was then that he was faced with yet another difficulty - namely, he couldn’t stand to face her. Her innocent blue eyes were far too near to his own hideous yellow ones, her precious wooden nose too close to his misshapen one - she was, all at once, much too reminiscent of the girl down down the hall and yet also an object of scorn because she _wasn’t_ Christine. He turned her around so that her back was to his chest and he didn’t have to look at her. Much better. 

As he cuddled the mannequin close to his chest, he wondered (certainly not for the first time) what the real Christine smelled like, because this one only smelled like paint and wood shavings. Surely the other one had a much more pleasant scent - like flowers or a cake or something. Almost certainly not paint. 

Would the real Christine like being held like this? Probably not - at least not by him. _The boy_ was probably who she wanted to hold her. He huffed. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t gotten rid of the mannequin after all - it would be the only thing he had left of her once she married the vicomte. Maybe she’d leave a little memento in his house by accident - a buckle from her shoe or a hair ribbon. That would be nice. 

He pressed his face into her hair, squeezing his eyes shut as a tear rolled down his cheek. 

He felt despicable and ridiculous doing it, but he kissed her on the neck all the same. He loved her (the real her, the one sleeping down the hallway, not the imitation he held now in his arms) so much, and even though he knew deep down in his soul that she would never be in this Christine’s place, he couldn’t stand the thought that he might harm her unthinkingly. So, he would learn. However long it took, he would remind himself over and over. He was safe, he was with his love. Nothing was going to harm him, there was no need to react harshly. It was just Christine, it was just his darling girl. In a few weeks she would be off somewhere with her husband, and he would be here with his shameful, inappropriate mannequin, but- 

He would know. At least he would know. Know that he’d never hurt her, that he could sleep next to someone else without panicking at the sensation of movement while he slept. 

Even if there never would be anyone else next to him as he slept. 

He eventually fell asleep, and some time after that the machine did as was supposed to - the mannequin in his arms shifted enough to wake him up. 

His hands tightened around its wooden body, panicked and confused. His sleep addled brain took a moment to remember what was going on (was there something - someone? - in here with him?), and he nearly had a heart attack at the sight of a blonde woman in his coffin next to him (_what was Christine doing here?! Had he dragged her to bed with him? Monster, monster!_), and that panic reached its height when, in his confused clutches, the wig slipped off of her head. But a moment later he relaxed his grip and sighed, the previous few hours coming back to him. 

His reaction hadn’t been ideal, but at least he hadn’t tried to kill the apparent intruder. He righted her wig and brushed his fingers through her tangled curls before resetting the machine. He wouldn’t get very much restful sleep, but he wouldn’t feel at peace knowing he couldn’t hold her and not hurt her. 

He reacted nearly the same for the rest of night, and while he supposed it was progress that on none of the occasions had he tried to choke the mannequin, he also assumed that the flesh and blood Christine would not appreciate being grabbed at in such a manner should she try to roll over in her sleep. 

Sure enough he felt a little groggy the next day, but he tried not to let Christine notice. They had breakfast together, although all he ate was a piece of toast while she had scrambled eggs, and a little while after that it was time for her lesson. 

She seemed to be able to sing just fine, but once she missed a note and Erik’s eyes darted suspiciously to her ribs, though it didn’t happen again. 

“You’re perfectly ready for rehearsal, I believe,” he told her at the end of the lesson. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good,” she nodded, then wrung her hands together and added- “Nervous.”

“Rehearsal is the place to get all your nerves out, you know that,” he chuckled lightly, and she smiled. 

They were both quite a moment longer. She had so much she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to say, and not just about the show coming up, but she couldn’t find the way to put it all into words. 

“Christine,” he whispered. “All of Paris is going to fall at your feet.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling of a lump in her throat. 

“Do you think so?” she nearly squeaked. 

“I know so, my dear.”

He quickly took his leave of her to work on his architecture, but she couldn’t help but feel that he was also avoiding her. Breakfast had been a solemn affair, and she hadn’t seen him again until their lesson. 

She went out to look at the lake after her lesson, needing a slight change of scenery. She could hear a faint drip somewhere of water, and every so often the smooth surface of the dark water would ripple as though something underneath were moving. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. It was always so chilly underground, she didn’t know how Erik could stand it. 

She frowned at the strange water, thinking of how close opening night was. Erik thought she was ready, and she seemed to have done well enough so far. But was she really ready? 

She returned inside after a while, chilled and shivering, with doubts itching in the back of her mind. She warmed herself by the fire and picked out a book to try and lose herself in. She wondered every so often what Erik was up to, if he would mind if she checked in on him. She knew it seemed silly, but she’d barely seen him all day, and she missed him. She liked spending time around him, even if they weren’t particularly doing anything - it was a pleasure just to be in the same room with him. She wondered, with a little smile, if she’d still feel the same way after being married to him for a few years. Perhaps he’d grow annoying eventually - perhaps _she_ would annoy him as well. It was an odd thought, but she was excited to find out. 

It wasn’t a hour later that he nonchalantly entered the room, and without a single word or a glance in her direction, grabbed a book off the shelf and settled himself in the chair farthest away from her. 

Her heart felt like it skipped a beat, and she couldn’t help but smile down into the open pages of her book. She hoped that his appearance here in this room signaled the end of his self-imposed exile from her presence. 

She stayed and read until her eyes grew blurry. She shut her book and sighed, supposing she should go to bed and be rested for rehearsal tomorrow. She returned the book to its place on the shelf, and Erik finally looked up, taking notice of her as though for the first time. 

“Are you going to sleep now, Christine?” he asked, closing his own book and standing. 

She nodded. 

“I think so. I don’t want to go upstairs too early tomorrow. I’d rather sleep in, if you don’t mind. We can go up an hour before rehearsal?”

“Of course,” he agreed as he put his book away. “Sleep well, my dear.”

He went to the door of the sitting room with her, and as he bid her a tender goodnight, he reached a hand out and brushed the tips of his fingers across the top of her shoulder. It was a gentle touch, lasting barely a second, but it was the first he had touched her since the unfortunate incident, and it caused a hope to bloom in her that perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps tomorrow night he would grow bold enough again to actually place his entire hand on her shoulder as he had often done before. She smiled sweetly at him before leaving the room, a smile that still lingered on her face even as she fell asleep that night. 

Erik waited up again to be certain she wasn’t going to come out and ask for a glass of water or to ask some nearly forgotten question, and when he was certain she was most likely asleep, he unlocked his bedroom door and locked it again after him. 

She was there, just where he had left her - sitting on the bench in front of the organ, her back to him, her eyes looking at the keys and her hands folded demurely on her lap. It had been quite necessary to place her there, really. It seemed horribly morbid to just leave her laying in the coffin all day - the though of that would have eaten at him constantly. 

He approached her for a moment, letting his hand rest on her shoulder like he had wanted to do with the real Christine, before he left for his bathroom to change and prepare for bed. When he had finished changing, he started the now nightly ritual he assumed he’d be doing for a long time henceforth - tying her ankle to the machine and settling her into the coffin with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her. 

As he drifted off to sleep, he could almost, almost pretend it was really her.


	13. Chapter 13

Erik wasn’t certain if it was actually the trip above the next day that was terrible, or merely his fear of the trip above that made it terrible. He didn’t have an attack, not exactly, but it was uncomfortable at times. 

The worst of it came when they reached the top of the spiral stairs and had just stepped out into a deserted hallway. Christine was in the middle of telling some story about a piece of theater gossip (she was increasingly the one who talked on their journeys nowadays, he didn’t seem to have quite enough breath anymore, but he did love hearing her talk) when she glanced over at him and suddenly stopped, frowning. 

“Erik,” she fretted. “You’re pale. Are you alright?”

Erik cursed himself. He had wanted to hide this from her as long as he could. It was just one of the many reasons he hadn’t gone to a doctor yet - if he received bad news (and how could this not signal bad news?) then he would be in a terrible mood and she would be certain to notice _that_. How could he spring that on her now, so close to the most important moment of career so far? She had enough on her plate without having to worry about him and his issues. It would only distract her from what was important. No, he couldn’t let her know, not until after the first few shows, anyway - and that meant he couldn’t know, either. It was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make, for her. 

He tried to smile and shrug and play it off as a truck of the light. 

“Gas lamps, Christine - you’re used to seeing me in electric light, remember?”

She shook her head, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his arm. 

“No, it’s not that - do you need to sit down? You’re really quite pale.”

He placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. 

“You always were the most compassionate girl,” he murmured. “But Erik is fine.”

She studied his face for a moment and nodded, but she didn’t fully believe him. She had a feeling, sometimes, that he was hiding something - she had of late increasingly noticed little things here and there, things that might or might not be connected. Sometimes she worried something was wrong with him, but so often he seemed so fine. Was it just her own anxiety over him? Or was he truly ill?

“Now, what was it Doreen told Peter after she found out he said her new dress was ugly?” he asked quietly. 

She was pulled from her own thoughts, her frown fading. 

“_Well_, she really let him have it-“

She whispered the rest of the story as they made their way down the hall, Erik trying to catch his breath inconspicuously. Soon enough it cane time for them to part, him to Box Five and her to her dressing room. They paused a moment in the hallway, and Erik recalled what she had said about being nervous. 

“Are you ready, sweet?”

She nodded. 

“Are you sure?” he teased. “You look a little pale.”

He reached a hand to cup her face for a second, then gently pinched her cheek and gave it a little shake. 

Christine laughed lightly as she reached up to place her hand over his and leaned her face into his touch for a moment. She closed her eyes, smiling, wishing that it could always continue like this between them forevermore. Surely he would stay healthy for years to come, wouldn’t he? And surely they would be still be close even if she bungled the role of prima donna and got fired, wouldn’t they? 

She hugged him, and he returned the embrace and ran a hand over her hair, careful not to upset the ribbon she had tied it back with. It would be so easy, he thought, so natural, to simply kiss the crown of her head, but he refrained from doing so. 

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” she said as she pulled away. 

Erik watched her go until she was out of sight down the next hallway, and he turned and slowly made his way to Box Five. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, his mysterious condition causing him to take the shortest path to where he wanted to go - meaning the long and twisting paths he used to traverse so easily were now out of the question, leaving him to walk hallways where he might run into anyone. He kept his head ducked, his hat covering much of his mask. 

It was because of this that he ended up running into the Daroga. 

Erik had half a mind to just keep walking, but Nadir stopped a little ways away from him and squinted his eyes. 

“Erik?”

Erik tensed. 

“Erik, what are you doing out here?” 

He could hear the concern that colored the other man’s voice, and he finally looked up. Nadir’s eyebrows went up. 

“You look-“

“Pale, pale, yes, I know,” Erik waved an annoyed hand. “I’m up here because I’m on my way to my box... Christine is singing, you know.”

“Ah, the new prima donna, yes,” Nadir smiled. 

He just stood there, smiling like some kind of fool, and Erik narrowed his eyes at him. 

“Would you like to join me in my box, Daroga?” he accused. 

His face lit up. 

“Of course! That sounds splendid!”

Erik nodded brusquely. 

“Very well. But if you dare to utter a single word while Christine is singing, I must warn you, Daroga - I will not hesitate to forcibly evict you from Box Five, quite possibly over the railing, too.”

Nadir chuckled. 

“I’d expect no less from you, old friend.”

Once inside the box, Erik quickly sat down and elevated his feet on a footstool. He felt oddly out of breath but he knew it would pass in a bit if he rested. The Daroga, annoying as ever, noticed. 

“Are you alright? I know it was a bit of a walk here, but you seem winded.”

Erik shot him an annoyed glare, but decided it was not the time for pretense anymore. 

“I have been... off, of late,” he said slowly. “Have, ah, have you ever had chest pains, Daroga?”

He tried to keep his tone casual, tried to hide the actual concern just under the surface as he glanced over at Nadir. 

“Chest pains?” he frowned and thought about it. “No, not myself.”

They were both quiet a moment, watching the performers line up for their opening scene down below. 

“Chest pains and shortness of breath?” Nadir asked presently. 

Erik nodded slowly. 

“Dizziness?” he eyed Erik carefully. 

A single nod. 

“You haven’t passed out, have you?”

“No,” Erik said innocently enough - the _not yet_ was implied. 

“Jaques used to have that, too - he lives in the flat across from mine, we go fishing every now and then.”

“Oh?” Erik tried to pretend to care about Jaques and the stupid fish when all he really wanted to know was how the man had seemingly stopped having the symptoms. 

“He takes some pills now, fixes it right up. Nitroglycerin, I think. Helps the heart work better,” Nadir paused. “Of course, Alan had the same symptoms, too.”

“Did Alan cure it with the nitroglycerin too?”

Nadir shook his head.

“No, Alan died, I’m afraid. Same symptoms, but a different problem. There was nothing they could do for him. It can be difficult to tell the difference, really.”

Erik placed an anxious hand over his heart as they both stared down at the stage. The pain had already passed and he was breathing easily again, but-

How could one tell the difference? With Erik’s luck, he knew which one it was. 

“I take it you haven’t spoken to a doctor yet?” Nadir murmured. 

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

Silence. 

“Erik... You really should get it checked out. Here, I’ll give you the name of my doctor, he’s very good. I can even tell him about you, that you’ll be dropping by.”

He pulled a pen and a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scrawled down a name and address, then handed it to Erik, who looked at it a moment before placing it in his own pocket. 

He was saved from having to reply by Christine entering the stage. 

Nadir, true to his word, kept quiet during Christine’s solo. She truly had become a very lovely singer. He glanced at Erik and watched him as he watched her. He was staring at his student as though she was everything that was good in the world. Nadir was reminded of long ago, of his own wife back in Persia, and how he too used to look at her that very same way. Erik very clearly loved the young woman, and Nadir wondered if he had told Christine that, or if she had simply realized it just from how he acted towards her. He was already making plans in his mind of how to goad Erik into going to the doctor - he could likely use Christine as motivation, he realized. Wouldn’t he want to be healthy for Christine?

Her song ended, and the next scene began. She was doing a quick change behind the curtain into a ridiculously huge wig, and it would be one and a half songs until she reappeared. 

Erik stood up and began to pace. Her voice had been nearly perfect - _nearly_. He mentally made notes of what he wanted to go over in their next lesson. 

Nadir watched him pace a moment. 

“How are things going with you and the mademoiselle?” he asked, and Erik froze. 

How were things going? Well... 

Good, he supposed, especially after- 

“She knows,” he said on a shaky exhale. “She knows about Persia now. About what I did there.”

“Oh, Erik,” Nadir sighed. 

He stood to face him, and saw the pained look on his face. 

“I never- I never wanted her to find out,” his voice trembled. “But she knows, now.”

Thinking of it afterwards, Erik couldn’t remember who it was who had approached who first, and Erik could have sworn he _meant_ to shove the Daroga away or to abuse him in some manner, but he somehow found himself hugging the man instead. 

Had the Daroga moved to embrace him? Had Erik stepped towards him to fall into his arms? Had both happened at the same time? Erik couldn’t tell, and Erik didn’t care. Nadir was the only one who could possibly understand about Persia and what had happened there, the only one who could possibly know how it pained him to let the love of his life know, even in part, even in such vague wording, what he had done in the past. 

Erik choked back a sob, clinging to him tightly. 

“Is she upset, now that she knows? Does she still want lessons?” Nadir asked softly. 

For a brief moment, panic flashed through Erik’s mind. She might not come back after rehearsal! She might never come back to him at all! But no, no - she had stayed with him even after she found out, she had hugged him of her own free will not even an hour ago. 

Erik nodded. 

“Things- things are just the same between us, I think,” he said, trying to hide the tears in his voice. 

“Of course,” he patted Erik’s back, still embracing him. “She seems a very understanding type. This can be a good thing, you know. If she stayed after hearing it, it can only make your relationship stronger.”

Erik sniffled. He knew what Nadir meant, but hearing him refer to Erik having a _relationship_ with her made his heart flutter just a little. He pulled away, shamefaced. 

“It’s almost her cue,” he said flatly as he sat back down. 

Nadir was quite touched by what had happened. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Erik hug anyone in all the long years he’d known him. A far cry from what he had been like in Persia, certainly, and certainly Christine could see that too, even if she didn’t fully know what he was like back then. Christine. Nadir watched her as she moved across the stage, her sweet voice filling the entire auditorium. His lips curled into a smile, thinking of how she had behaved with Erik when he had seen them together in Erik’s home. Erik might protest it, and the young woman might not even realize it (or had she? She was quite bright, after all), but she was in love with Erik - or at least Nadir thought so. She was too comfortable, too familiar around him to be otherwise. And now, upon hearing such an ugly secret from Erik’s past? Erik had said it hadn’t changed anything between them. Nadir wondered if he’d receive an invitation to their wedding. 

Eventually another singer took over, though Christine was still on the stage. A duet was coming up soon. Erik cast a furtive glance at the Daroga. He truly wished he hadn’t cried in front of the man. Perhaps- perhaps he hadn’t noticed? 

“This fellow is rather good, don’t you think?” Nadir whispered to him. 

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he hadn’t noticed! No, he would make a huge, unnecessary scene if he had actually caught Erik crying, he was sure of it. A grin formed on his lips. How clever he was, being able to hide his emotions like that! He hadn’t lost even a touch of that ghostliness over the years. 

“He’s not terrible, I suppose,” Erik conceded. 

Nadir raised an eyebrow at him and how he was smiling. Christine may have helped to soften his temper, but his mood swings were as typical as ever. Practically sobbing on his shoulder one moment, and then smirking a few minutes later? Nadir was certain he’d never understand his strange friend’s mind, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

Rehearsal eventually ended and the director had the company gather on stage to give what corrections he saw fit. At this late stage, there weren’t a lot, but he still had over a dozen. 

Christine stood and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her heart pounding. She was certain at any moment he was going to call on her and tell her she was doing poorly. She had failed to hit a note or two, and it ate at her. Still, the correction never came. He finished with his corrections and sent them all away. 

She wavered between relief (she was doing just fine, and he hadn’t seen anything she needed to improve) and terrible disappointment (she was doing so horribly that he didn’t even know where to start in correcting her, and decided improving her was a lost cause). She wrung her hands as she stepped off the stage and made her way towards the dressing rooms. 

“Christine!” Meg ran up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

She was startled at first, but upon seeing the wicked little grin on Meg’s face, she couldn’t help but blush. Before she even said it, Christine knew what was on her mind. 

“I haven’t seen you in your dormitory recently,” she teased, and Christine only turned pinker. 

“Oh?” she feigned innocence, badly. 

Meg giggled, and Christine groaned. 

“Oh, Meg - I think-“ she chewed her lip. “_I think I love him_.”

Meg froze. 

“Who?” she demanded. 

Christine hid her face in her hands. 

“Erik,” she squeaked in a tiny voice, desperately hoping he wasn’t eavesdropping on them - this wasn’t how she wanted him to find out!

Meg looked confused. 

“My teacher,” she explained. “My vocal teacher. The one I’ve- I’ve been staying with.”

“Christine... Does Raoul know?”

She swatted at Meg. 

“Raoul doesn’t own me!” she frowned. “But - I haven’t told him yet. I’m going to, as soon as I see him next. He’ll be back from his trip soon, and I felt I should tell him in person, not through a letter.”

She placed a hand over her heart. 

“Oh, Meg,” she sighed. “Sometimes I feel like my heart is going to burst with it all.”

“Aww! That’s so sweet! Oh- but how does Erik feel about you? Didn’t you say one time that you thought he liked you?”

Christine’s brow knit. 

“He loves me, Meg,” she whispered. “He loves me so very much, I don’t think there’s anything in the world he wouldn’t do for me.”

Meg pretended to swoon. 

“How romantic! When is the wedding?”

Christine smiled wryly. 

“I don’t know, really. He’s- well, he’s rather odd. I don’t know how having a wedding will work - he might not want any guests there,” she shrugged helplessly. 

Meg frowned. 

“Well, that’s disappointing... But if it’s really true love... I suppose a fancy wedding doesn’t matter... You’ll miss out on cake, though,” she shot her friend a doleful look. 

Christine sighed and shook her head. 

“We can still have cake, Meg. You know I’d never pass up a cake.”

The girls giggled and whispered as they walked back to the dressing rooms, and she took her leave of Meg with a long hug before she left for her own dressing room. 

She entered it expectantly, and, seeing it empty, her eyes fell on the large mirror. She closed and locked her door, and sure enough right after that the mirror slid back to reveal Erik. 

“Was I awful?” she blurted out. 

He looked confused. 

“Christine, my dear, you were wonderful.”

She arched an eyebrow. 

“You missed a few notes here and there, you were nervous, but on the whole-“ he amended. 

She frowned as she fretted over the items on her vanity, pulling the wig off and placing it on the wig stand. She pulled out a cloth and poured some liquid from a bottle onto it and swiped it across her face, removing her makeup. 

“You looked beautiful, Christine,” he said quietly as he watched her, and her face softened. 

She held his eye in the mirror and almost considered telling him right then - she could, after all, hear those same unspoken words in his nearly whispered compliment. 

“Do you- do you need me to step out, so you can change?” he offered after a moment. 

She shook her head. 

“I’ll change at h-“ _at home_ “at the house, I mean.”

He nodded and produced a lantern to guide them - purely for her own benefit, she knew, and she smiled. 

“Thank you, Erik.”

Erik couldn’t help his sidelong glances at her as they made their way to the underground lake. The lantern was plenty bright, it wasn’t dark enough in the tunnels to frighten her, and yet she insisted on walking so terribly close to him. She had bumped up against his arm more than once already. It was odd, but his life was already so full of oddities, what was one more? If only they all could be as pleasant as this, he thought.


	14. Chapter 14

They took their time going back downstairs afterwards, and once there Erik set about making tea for them. Christine insisted on setting up the tea tray herself, her nerves still buzzing from being onstage. Erik let her take over and went to the sitting room. He removed his coat and hung it on the rack in the corner, pulling out the little piece of paper the Daroga had given him. He stared at the name written there for a few moments in the firelight. 

Should he go see him? Nadir was probably expecting him to. He leaned against the mantle. What use did he have in being told he was dying? He already knew it. He let the little paper fall into the fire and burn up. 

“What was that?” Christine asked as she brought the tea tray in and set it on the little table in front of the couch. 

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “Nothing important.”

“Hm. Well, come sit down and have some tea.”

They passed the time until the next rehearsal, falling into what Christine found a surprisingly comfortable routine. Considering there was no sunlight to guide their day, Erik kept a very regular schedule, though he had alluded to this kind of schedule being for her own sake - she knew that if left to his own devices he would likely let days blur together while focused intently on a single task. 

Living with Erik for so long was... enlightening. He had a surprising amount of patience (at least with her) for one such as himself, but he also had a limited amount of what Christine had dubbed _self control_, though it wasn’t in the regular sense of the word. He very often tried his best to appear normal around her, but the ability to do so only last so long. 

Erik was a man of many quirks, and she became acquainted with very many of them very fast because he had not the energy nor the attention span to hide them for very long. 

Lemons had to squeezed over his tea _just so_ (she had, in fact, seen him discard more than one cup of tea because _it wasn’t right_). He hummed nearly constantly when he thought he was alone, and she could typically tell wherever he was in the house based off of how loud his humming was. She found out by accident that he was very particular about the order of the silverware in the drawers - he had looked nearly pained when he had pleaded with her to not change the direction the forks faced. 

Once, when they had been about to take a trip to the market, Erik had hesitated and told her he needed to change before going out. She waited in the entryway for him, and he returned not fifteen minutes later. She had raised a playful eyebrow and commented on how he looked exactly the same. 

He had frowned and passed a hand over his hair, smoothing it down. 

“I- I changed my wig,” he admitted. “This is my going-out wig.”

She stared for a long time at the wig with a blank face, wondering if he was making fun of her. But no, he looked slightly uncomfortable at having admitted it, and also surprised that she hadn’t been able to tell the difference. 

The wig sat there on his head, looking exactly the same as it always had.

She knew, of course, that he had more than one wig, but to her eye they had all looked alike. Had he not mentioned it, she never would have guessed. 

She blinked a few times. 

“I see,” she said dryly, and they had left for the market and neither ever uttered another word on the subject of wigs. 

He was odd. There was no denying it. And she loved him. There was no denying that, either. 

She grew more and more certain of it with each day that passed. Unfortunately, she also grew more and more uncertain of how to tell him. And she needed to do it soon - there were moments when she felt that she could cut the tension between them with a knife. She was a clever young woman, she was certain of it, but _this_, somehow, always managed to escape her. 

She completed her next rehearsal and the show went well enough, though she still wondered if she’d do as well on opening night. 

They returned back to his house and settled in routine once more - life was consumed with her lessons, evenings spent cooking meals together, and long hours spent reading (her absolute favorite, of course, was when he offered to read to her, something he had realized she liked so he had taken to offering more often). They went out together on trips a few times, and she went out by herself for a handful more, but by the end of those solo outings she found herself longing for his company again. 

Each night Erik made the effort to actually go to sleep. He wasn’t certain if he had ever had so many nights in a row of sleep, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that he did feel rather better after it. 

That night, as it did each night, the imitation Christine shifted in his sleeping arms. And that night, as he had the previous three nights, he floated back to wakefulness from his slumber, and gave his beloved a little squeeze, a tender gesture of acknowledgment even though she never acknowledged anything. No panic, no fear or jumping, no grabbing at her harshly - just his darling moving and waking him, as simple as that. 

He rolled over onto his back and pulled the mannequin up to rest on his chest. He stroked her hair, not bothering to reset the machine again. He had his answer. 

Or did he? 

The question that had floated across his mind as he fell asleep again returned to him again that next day. 

He watched Christine, curious, as she set about dusting the bookshelves. It was after dinner, and he had found she’d often get odd little bursts of energy to do something whenever there seemed to be a stretch of time with nothing particular to do, and she almost always picked cleaning. It had nearly hurt him, at first, when he had found her busying herself cleaning his house - he hadn’t asked her to do so. He knew that it was considered to be work for a woman to do, but just because she was a woman that didn’t mean she had to clean his house for him - that made him feel awkward. Then he had been struck by the thought that perhaps she found his house altogether too messy and unkempt, and cleaning it was the only way to preserve her sanity. But he had asked her about it, and she had assured him that she was only doing so because she wanted something to occupy her mind - it was a habit, she had told him, from childhood. Little did he realize just what she was trying to distract herself from - the strange way he made her feel and her frustration at her own inability to confess to him. 

“Christine,” he said presently. “Christine, put down that rag, please.”

She left the rag on the shelf and turned to face him, brow knit. 

“What is it, Erik?”

But he didn’t reply. He slowly bridged the distance between them until he was he was close enough to touch her. He put his hands around her shoulders and pulled her close, keeping her there like that for a moment before both hands went up to cup her cheeks. 

“Christine, you know how important you are to me,” he said, his voice soft and serious. 

She swallowed hard, her heart fluttering. Where they finally going to discuss his confession from the night so long ago? 

She reached her hands up to his, and for a moment he was afraid he had been too bold with her, that she was going to pull his hands away, but instead she rested them over top of his, keeping his hands where they were on her face, and she brushed her thumbs over his knuckles. 

“I know,” she assured him, her voice barely more than a whisper as she stared up into his golden eyes that were so, so close. 

He studied her for a moment, his gaze intense, and she could see the love he felt for her hidden behind the concern that currently colored his expression. She took a deep breath. Could he see her love for him as easily? Was it there in her eyes too? Would he even know to look for it? 

He licked his dry lips. 

“Christine-“ he started, then paused. 

Her stomach did a flip. Was he going to kiss her? She wanted that so badly, but with his hands on her face so, she was unable to close the distance between them herself. Should she remove them and kiss him herself? 

“You know I’d never put you in danger, don’t you?”

She nodded. 

“There’s- there’s something I want to ask of you, Christine,” his brow knit. “I’m sorry that I can’t explain it very well, why I want to do this, but- I need to know.”

Her own brow furrowed as she tried to understand him. 

“I need to know,” he took a moment to collect his thoughts, then he lowered his voice. “I need to know that I would never hurt you like that. That’s all.”

She nodded, and waited for him to continue. 

“I’m going to fall asleep on the couch in the sitting room tonight, Christine. I-“ he lowered his eyes a moment, a frown passing over his face. “I will be wearing my mask. But- but I want you to come wake me, Christine. Not like last time - not like that. Just stand in the doorway, where it’s safe, and call my name. Can you do that for me, sweet? Does that sound okay to you?”

She took a shuddering breath before replying, her tone on the verge of breaking, and she hoped he’d catch the implication of her words. 

“I think I’d do anything for you, Erik.”

He missed any deeper meaning and simply nodded. 

“Come to the sitting room any time tonight, but preferably a few hours after I’ve fallen asleep. All you have to do is stand in the doorway - that’s all I want you to do. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay in the doorway.”

He smiled. 

“My good, sweet girl,” he whispered, and leaned his face down a little closer to hers. 

She tried to scoot closer, to stand on her tiptoes to prepare to kiss him on the mouth, but his hold on her was rather unforgiving and he merely let his forehead rest on hers for a second before pulling back. 

“Thank you, Christine,” he squeezed her arm before pulling away entirely. “You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

She swallowed back her disappointment and managed a smile and a nod. 

She knew what it meant to him. She knew because it meant the same thing to her. Didn’t they both want the same thing? She chewed her lip as she watched him walk away, debating herself on if she should tell him right then. She could run up to him and grab his collar, tugging him down low enough to kiss. Would he call her _his good, sweet girl_ again? Would he whisper that in her ear as they made love? 

“Erik!” she called after him, following him. 

She caught up to him quickly, and impetuously reached a hand out, placing it on his back. Erik tensed at the touch, turning slightly to face her. 

“What is it, my dear?” he looked at her in confusion, baffled by her touch. 

She hadn’t moved her hand away, instead letting it slide slowly from its place between his shoulder blades all the way down his spine, past where his rib cage ended and letting it rest dangerously close to the small of his back. It was always difficult to tell from his fine clothing, so well tailored to hide the fact, and layered to add volume - but each time she had ever touched him he had felt oddly thin. She could feel muscle, too, but it did little to take away the strange sensation under her hands. As she had run her hand down his back, she had felt every bump of each bone in his spine. She liked touching him. 

Erik was conflicted over what to do - half of him wanted to pull away from her small hand on his person, the other half wanted to lean back into the touch. He stood stock still, and time seemed to do likewise until suddenly she seemed to remember herself and pulled her hand back, wrapping her other around it as though to hide to offending appendage. 

Christine bit her lip. 

She would not describe herself as a woman who was timid, as one who was afraid to ask for what she wanted - in her career she was quite bold, and she was good at standing up for herself when need be. She set boundaries with others exceedingly well - but this, _this_ was uncharted territory for her. How could she ask for this? She had no experience here, not really. The only other comparable relationship she’d had was with Raoul, and he had always been the one to initiate things, to which she’d either gladly oblige or politely decline. She found herself almost wishing that she had made use of a patron to practice such skills on, that she could have had a chance to find ways to word her desires and wants with someone who didn’t really matter, so that it would be second nature to her now with Erik. 

Her cheeks turned pink at the thought of it all. He was a man, was he not? And he loved her. And she was a woman - one who was staying in his own home with him. Why couldn’t he simply save them both the time and trouble and make the first move? How could she ask for- for _that_? She likely wouldn’t have to - surely it would come naturally eventually - but he wasn’t going to act out of the blue. At the very least, she would have to tell him she loved him first, and only then would he move to take it further. But oh, how she wished he would simply _understand_ and save her from her tongue-tied shyness - if only he would bridge that distance and kiss her or even knock on her door at night... She would not turn him away! 

She looked up at him now, an odd light in her eyes as she observed the warm affection in how he looked at her. All of the words she wanted to say formed inside of her mind, but none of them would arrange themselves in the proper order to come out of her mouth. Three simple words would be all it took, but they burned in her throat and made her feel flustered and embarrassed. 

She looked down. 

“Would you play for me tonight? Just for a little while?” she asked shyly. 

He smiled. 

“Of course.”

His imagination ran away so often, he had almost hoped she would be asking something else - but of course not. 

She surprised him, though - when he sat on the piano bench to play as she had asked him to, she sat down on it right next to him. He hesitated for only a moment, then asked her (in a voice that bordered on stiff) what she would like to hear. 

“Anything,” she said. 

He started with a Swedish folk tune. 

He managed a glance at her every so often. He felt lucky that he was such a skilled pianist - it was very distracting to have his little Christine there right next to him, and if he were a lesser player he might have quite bungled whatever song he was attempting. She was so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her body (surely it was not just his imagination?). She had never sat so close before, with her legs almost touching his, and her little ankles crossed and feet tucked under the bench, her hands folded on her lap. Sometimes she would watch his hands as they danced across the keys, and sometimes when he glanced over she would be looking at his face with that same unreadable expression. 

Christine was deep in thought as she sat next to him. It seemed a cruel and funny trick of life that she should feel so comfortable around him yet still feel too awkward to tell him how she felt about him. She wished they could simply skip the awkward part and go straight to being married. How easily they could fall into that role! Were they not very nearly already there, anyway? All that was left was for him to kiss her and to consummate the relationship, really. Scratch that - all that was left was for her to let him know that she felt about him the same way he felt about her, and _then_ they would kiss. 

She was surprised at herself. Where was her usual assuredness of her choices? Where was her determination to get what she wanted? She really was still a blushing virgin, she supposed. There was an odd shift in her mind when she would, on increasingly frequent occasions, somehow cease to see their dynamic as simply as _Erik and Christine, who are friends_, and instead as _Erik and Christine, a man and woman_. Erik was her friend, of course he was - but he was also a man. As her friend, she could tell him anything without worry about judgment, and she felt incredibly close to him. As a man, he intimidated her. Every time she was on the verge of telling her friend her most secret feelings, she was suddenly reminded that her friend was also a man. 

But he wasn’t just any man - he was Erik. From the things he’d said or made reference to here and there, it was certainly no stretch of the imagination to say that no one had ever told him they loved him... Probably because no one had ever loved him. She would be the very first to ever say those words to him, and the enormous weight of that was crushing. This was not some flippant crush on a boy who had had handfuls of girls flirt and kiss him and would have still handfuls more after her - there was no room for mistakes or carelessness in how she presented her emotion. How could she go about revealing those things to him in a way that did justice to the momentous occasion? She didn’t want a giant spectacle, but surely it had to be delivered with more tact than simply saying to him at the dinner table _ Could you pass the salt, Erik? These potatoes are quite excellent with all this cheese one them. Oh, by the way, I’d like it if we were to marry, I’m quite in love with you, you know. Is there any more of this wine?_

She wondered how he would have told her of his own feelings for her if he hadn’t done so accidentally. He surely hadn’t been intending to tell her at all, but perhaps if his face had been normal, he would have boldly offered up his heart to her in some romantic gesture. She wished she could have known, wished that he hadn’t considered himself unworthy of having affection for her simply because of his face. 

She looked up at him again, her brow knitted. 

If she wished that he simply would have told her regardless, would that mean that he felt the same way? Should she simply tell him and get it over with, get it out in the open so they could move on from there? Surely hearing it said, no matter how flippantly, was preferable to not hearing it at all? But wouldn’t he want something memorable to mark the moment? It was special, after all. 

He played a handful of songs for her, pausing only a moment and glancing at her between each one, and in each pause she considered telling him, but then he was playing again, and she never worked up the courage. Finally she smiled and nodded during one of his pauses, letting him know she was ready to retire at last. 

“Thank you, Erik,” she said softly. “I love-“

_you, I love you_

“I love it when you play for me.”

“And I love playing for you, Christine,” he replied tenderly, and she knew, _knew_ what he meant underneath of those words, and if she knew so readily what he meant, did he also understand what she had meant when she had said that? But no - he couldn’t have, or else he wouldn’t have risen from the bench, wouldn’t be leaving the room with only the softest of touches on her shoulder as he smiled one last time. 

He was in no way ready to sleep yet, but still he went in his bedroom and closed the door, resting his forehead against it. Two weeks. Why had he agreed to this? It was torture, truly, but of the sweetest kind. Her staying in his house for so long was certainly a test of his endurance - how many times had he wanted to pull her to him and kiss her? It was nearly unbearable. And they still had days left to go! He would look back on this one day and miss this sweet torture, he told himself. One day when she was off and married to another man and she would never stay with him in his home again, never let him touch her as though he had any right to, never give him that darling little smile again. He had visions of simply never letting her return up above, of keeping her here with him forever - she could not marry the boy if she never saw the boy again! - but he dismissed those almost immediately. It would never work. All other factors aside, she was far too clever to trap like that - he would constantly be worried she’d find a way out somehow, no matter how many locks he used. He sighed. 

It was a strange thing, waiting to fall asleep on the couch. He was still nearly fully dressed, for one thing. He fretted over whether he should take his boots off - he didn’t particularly want them on the couch, but Christine had never seen his feet before. He blushed as he unlaced them. There was nothing particularly _wrong_ with his feet, not really, nothing he felt the need to hide from her, but- 

It felt rather intimate, to him. In mere hours, Christine was going to see his stockinged feet. He very nearly put his boots back on. 

He lay back against the little pile of pillows near the arm of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. What if he shifted while he was asleep and knocked his mask off and Christine had to walk in and see _that_? What if he really wasn’t cured after all, and when she called to him he flipped out and threw something at her? What if he couldn’t fall asleep at all and he caused her to miss an entire night’s worth of sleep and it affected her voice somehow? 

Miraculously, he eventually managed to sleep, no thanks to his thoughts. 

Christine peeked in after a few hours. It was late, so surely he had been sleeping for a little while now. She paused there a long moment, simply watching him. The even rise and fall of his chest, his arms, one cast over his chest and the other behind his head. Her eyes fell to his feet, and his pants, which were hemmed to just above the ankle, showed her her first glimpse not only of his thin feet but his bony ankles as well. 

A brief, fleeting thought which left shame and a red face in its wake - she wondered what his legs looked like the rest of the way up. She looked away from him. 

She paused only a moment longer, quickly glancing around the room for possible weapons he might turn against her in a confused state. She gripped the edge of the doorway, leaning against it. 

“Erik? Erik, wake up.”

His eyes opened without any fuss. His mind took a small second to process where he was, and then he sat up stiffly before turning to face her. 

“There,” she said, smiling. “There, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” he stifled a yawn. 

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Erik, and now you know it too.”

“It’s rather hard to hurt you, my dear, when you are all the way over there,” he pointed out. 

She giggled. 

“Well, we’ll just have to work our way up, then. How about next time I stand a little closer?”

“You might be safe to speak to me, but not to shake me again,” he rubbed at his eyes. “And we won’t know because there’s no safe way to test that, I’m afraid.”

“We can fix that, too. How about next time I find a long stick and poke you with it, Angel?” her eyes sparkled mirthfully. 

He looked at her, bemused. 

“Christine, _no_.”

Her bubbly laughter was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. 

She lingered there in the doorway, even though there was really nothing else to say. What did he want her to do now? Would he want some company for a little while, perhaps? She could join him on the couch, and they could talk. Her face still tingled pleasantly where his hands had been earlier, and a similar feeling still coursed through her body. Perhaps closeness to him would cure (increase?) the sensation. She itched to find out, but lacked the bravery to go and sit by him without invitation. 

He closed his eyes and passed his hand over his face. Did she even have any idea how beautiful she was, how irresistible he found her? How he longed for her to creep closer to him so he could pull her down to the couch and hold her! He wanted so badly just to hold her. Well, he wanted very many things (and there were so very many things they could do that would not affect her upcoming marriage to the boy, so many things they could still enjoy, he had envisioned them all in great detail), but he would count himself the luckiest creature on the earth if he could simply hold her close to him. They had hugged, yes, and there were frequent touches between them - he supposed the logistics of hugging her and holding her were nearly the same, but to hold her seemed to him to imply an entirely different level of trust on her part (he knew, in the most technical sense, that he _had_ already held her, but she had been weeping so hard, and he wanted to hold her when she _wasn’t_ weeping, and he knew that he should settle for whatever he managed to get, but he was terribly greedy, really). They would be sitting together somewhere, likely on the couch. To have her sit so close to him while he held her - how easily it could turn to something else! How simply he could shift them into lying down and steal away her innocence! - but he would not do that to her, no, regardless of how much he wanted to - he would be as gentle as a lamb with her, she would see, just hold her in his arms, nothing more - if only she would _cross the damned room already_ and come within an arm’s reach of him... 

He opened his eyes and looked at her as she stood there in the doorway. He knew, in that moment, if he invited her in she would not refuse - she had no reason to, not really. She’d come sit on the couch if he motioned for her to come closer and patted the cushion next to him. She really did trust him, even though she shouldn’t. Knowing the images that floated through his mind as he thought of them on the couch together, he could barely trust himself. 

He closed his weary eyes and, placing his hand over them, turned his face away from her. He couldn’t stand the amount of trustingness that was there in her gaze. He didn’t deserve it. 

“You can go to sleep now, sweet,” he told her, his voice still rough from having been woken. 

She nodded, though she knew he wouldn’t see it, and smiled. 

“Goodnight, Erik,” she said sweetly. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Christine.”

He felt relief and joy that his experiment had worked, but it was still bittersweet. She was safe from him while he slept, he knew this now - but he still had to protect her from himself while he was awake. 

The poor girl, as she left his wicked presence, had no idea how close to her own ruin she had come.


	15. Chapter 15

She blinked back tears as she exited the stage from her last dress rehearsal. In three days time, she would be taking the stage as prima donna and all of Paris would be watching. She didn’t know why, exactly, that was something to cry over, but she felt it all the same. 

Perhaps it was the relief of finally gaining what she’d always wanted. Perhaps it was sadness that Papa wasn’t there to see it. Perhaps it was fear of losing this new role, of having it slip through her grasp at the last second. 

Either way, she turned her head and wiped at her tears so Erik wouldn’t see them after she stepped behind her mirror. He was busy lighting the lantern and didn’t seem to notice. 

He seemed distracted as they went downstairs, frequently taking stops as he rowed slowly across the lake. 

She turned backwards to look at him. 

“Erik?” she asked softly. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t particularly look okay. 

“Just fine,” he breathed, but he didn’t attempt to row again for a long moment. 

“Are you su-“

“The train on your dress for the second act is rather long, do you think you should speak to the costume manager about getting it shortened?”

She chewed her lip. 

“No,” she said finally. “It’s not too long. I can manage.”

She knew he wasn’t worried about the train being too long. He was worried about something else. 

They were quiet for the rest of the trip, but once locked safely inside his house, he inquired solicitously over her needs or wants. He was worried over the pains in his chest, but even still he could tell something wasn’t quite right with her. He wanted to press the issue, but knew that if he insisted that he wanted to know what was troubling her, she would turn it right back on him and ask if he was feeling well. 

“Is the fire warm enough?” he tended it with the iron poker. “Would you like some tea, or something to eat?”

She shook her head. 

“No, I’m fine.”

He took his leave of her, saying he needed to work on an architectural project. He shut himself up in his workroom, and Christine was left alone with her thoughts. 

Nothing in the house seemed to capture her interest for more than a few fleeting moments. She wandered from room to room like a ghost, staring forlornly at the piano, scanning the book titles, looking at the stove and the oven and the potential foods she could make, at the candlesticks on the dining room table, the rug in the entryway. Finally she ended up in her own room and shut the door. 

She sat down at the little desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, fiddling with the pen before eventually writing down her thoughts. 

There was not enough time for another trip to Perros, though she would have felt comforted by going. She shed more than a few tears as she wrote the letter, some falling to the page and smearing the ink. But it didn’t matter. She ended up writing two pages, both front and back on each one. She added a footnote as well, asking her Papa to tell her Mother about her, to tell her that she was happy with her life and with her choices, and that she was grateful, and she hoped she would have been proud of her and that she loved her even if she never even knew her. She felt a little guilty thinking of her Mother - she hadn’t often spared a thought for the woman who had died bringing her into the world. She didn’t even know where she was buried to go visit her. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know _how_ to think of her. Papa had always been sparse with details, the pain always too near to speak of her for very long. As such, she was left with an incomplete image of the woman who had been her mother. But, when he had spoken of her, the one consistent theme was that she had loved Christine so very much - she was the one who named her, and she had always such high hopes and fantastic dreams of what her daughter could achieve one day. 

Christine took the letters and left her room, not bothering with an envelope. She went out the front door and sat down on the bank of the lake, careful not to get any water on her dress. She folded the letters neatly into a little paper boat, and, after holding it in her hands for a moment, set it down softly on the surface of the water. With a single finger she pushed it off into the water, and it floated away from her, bobbing and tilting as it went. 

The gentle current took it out of view, but she knew at some point the water would consume it entirely - the paper would melt and sink and the ink would fade and run and her words would be lost to time, but it didn’t matter. She knew they would get to where they needed to be, somehow. 

She stayed on the bank a long time after the little boat was gone, staring out into the dark horizon. Finally she rubbed at the drying tear tracks on her face and sniffed one last time. There was no longer room to look backwards anymore. Now was the time to live. Dreams of the past and wishing things were different would not help her achieve what she wanted. It was time to look forwards only. A new chapter had begun. 

She heard a soft click from behind her, and she turned around to look. 

Erik was standing in the doorway, watching her with a concerned look on his face. Visions flashed through his mind of Ophelia and he braced himself to have to have to jump in the lake after her and fish her out. She _had_ been acting odd lately. 

But it seemed his worry was unfounded. She got to her feet and walked back up to the house. He stepped backwards to let her in, and she smiled serenely at him. 

“Are you finished with your project?” she asked as he closed the door. 

“No, I just needed a little break,” he looked her over. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “It’s just- it’s a lot.”

He tilted his head. 

“It hurts, a little. Not having Papa here to see me on opening night. But even though it hurts... I’m still so happy,” she smiled up at him before adding in almost a whisper, “I’m so happy to be here with you.”

She stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around him in a hug, and decided to tell him. 

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, and as soon as she started to form the syllables, Erik spoke up. 

“You should sit by the fire for a bit so you don’t catch a chill,” he frowned as he returned her hug then released her. “You feel a little cold.”

He fretted over her and ushered her to the fireplace as she blinked and let herself be led there. 

“We can’t take any chances, not so close to opening night,” he placed a blanket over her shoulders. 

She rolled her eyes, but she appreciated the gesture, unnecessary though it was - the fire was more than warm enough, she was going to stifle underneath of the blanket. All the same, she left it on until he went back to his workroom, at which point she folded it and placed it back on the couch. 

If only he hadn’t flustered her! She would have told him... She sighed. All she needed was a good moment to do so. 

She went back to her bedroom, toying with the idea of writing him a letter, too. But once the paper was in front of her, all her words felt used up. Maybe she had already written everything she was capable of writing that day. She hoped that with the letter to her Papa she had finally been able to say goodbye and put the ghosts of the past to rest. And it had worked, in a fashion, at least for now. She found her mind increasingly turning to the future. To Erik. To _their_ future together. 

Which reminded her of something else. 

She had secretly asked him many things over the fortnight that had to do with any kind of a shared future, nearly every question she saw fit to ask of a prospective husband. _Nearly_ every question. She squirmed a little on her chair. 

There was one question left. It was also the most difficult question. It was... impertinent. Borderline obscene for her to ask of a man she wasn’t married to. But - were they not very nearly already married? Surely it wasn’t that awful if she should ask... And he was her teacher, her mentor, and it _was_ a question that had to do with the very future of her career! If she could not ask such a question of him, whoever would she ask it of? And an answer was most necessary! She wanted to know what she was getting into! 

It wasn’t a question that needed to be asked before they were married, specifically... but it did need to be answered before their wedding night. It was prudent to plan ahead, was it not?

She debated herself on it for the next hour or so as she doodled little drawings on her stationary paper, until she heard Erik leaving his workroom. She followed him quietly as he went into the sitting room and looked for a book. 

She merely watched him from the doorway a moment. 

He glanced over at her. 

“You can come in, if you wish,” he told her. “I’ve finally finished with my work.”

She crept into the room, just a few small steps, and examined him. 

This was Erik - her friend - but also most definitely a man. He was the Opera Ghost, but also her Angel. Here was the man who had often touched her so gently and with such kindness, the very same man who had apparently executed unknown numbers of people so long ago. Hard as lighting, yet soft as candlelight - the man that, perhaps against all better judgment, she intended to wed, the man she intended to have intimate moments with, moments that could lead to- 

“Erik,” she asked slowly. “How would it affect my career if I- if I... had a baby?”

She said the last part so quietly he almost didn’t hear her - but those awful words registered themselves in his mind all the same. 

He choked on his own breath, dropping the book from his hands onto the floor, and he quickly stooped to try to pick it up, only to fumble and end up dropping it a second time. His face turned bright red and he struggled to even exist in that moment. 

Why on earth would she want to know that? Unless- unless it was pertinent information... Was she...? 

He ran a hand over his burning face. 

If Christine truly was in the family way, he desperately hoped that it was because of the boy - he, at least, had enough honor in him to marry her if the child was his. If wasn’t the boy’s - well, would he still marry her after finding out? Erik wasn’t certain. Would Raoul really be content with raising the child of some other patron, possibly even a friend or acquaintance of the de Chagny family? But Christine didn’t have a patron - or did she? Or had someone forced themself on her? Why hadn’t she told him? He would kill that bastard! But no, no, no, it _must_ be because of the boy, because she was here asking him how she could both continue her career _and_ have a child - if it had been the spawn of some attacker or random patron, she surely would have already visited one of those doctors whose name was always whispered by the ballet rats. 

He felt nauseous and dizzy. Christine, with child. 

But what if it wasn’t Raoul’s? She still wanted it? Her life would practically be over! How could she survive like that? A small child and no job and no husband or prospect of ever getting one? 

He swallowed against a lump in his throat. His eyes focused hazily on the distant wall. 

Christine chewed her lip and watched as he seemed to have some sort of internal malfunction. She had known he likely wouldn’t take the question well, but this was a little over the top. She hoped she hadn’t broken him too much. 

Erik seemed to return to himself just slightly, turning his head to look at her. She stared right back at him, her own face showing a hint of a flush from embarrassment, but her gaze was determined. Good heavens, Erik realized - she actually expected an answer from him!

Against his own will, his eyes sidled down to just below her midsection. He quickly looked away. The very last thing he needed to be thinking about was _Christine’s womb_ \- he already felt terribly hot all over, any more embarrassment and he would surely burst into flame. 

He cleared his throat and licked his dry lips and attempted (and failed) to form coherent words. He couldn’t look at her. 

“Well you could still sing,” he just barely managed to get out. “Physically, I mean.”

He tried to take a deep breath into his burning lungs and attempted to step back and look at the issue clinically and impartially. 

If she had a child, she’d need some sort of support system in place to keep her from becoming homeless. But she had no family members, and if the boy decided to abandon her... She would be all alone in the world. Unless... Erik could marry her - _would_ marry her in a heartbeat, regardless of if she was carrying another man’s child. And even if she didn’t want to marry him, well, he would still see that she was looked after. She could live with him if she wanted, or he could provide the funds necessary to rent and furnish a small flat somewhere nearby. He could watch the child while she went to rehearsal, or else he’d pay for a nanny to do so. Her dropping out of music all together was simply impossible to consider - he would not allow it. She could have the child, if she wished, and after she recovered she would go about her career the same as ever. If he timed it right, no one would even have to know - she could say she had a sick friend in another country she had to look after, and then he’d take her to a cottage out in the country somewhere for six or so months until she was ready to return to the stage. She’d do nothing but rest and work on her voice, so surely coming back to the opera after the baby was old enough wouldn’t be an issue - perhaps the Ghost would have to provide a little motivation for the managers to amend her contract to a suitable one, but that shouldn’t be difficult. 

“You could still perform, in the beginning. Once you become... visibly... with child,” he ducked his head in shame, but soldiered on. “Then you would very likely not be allowed to perform, but - after a while, when the child is old enough to be left with a nanny for a while, I see no reason why you could not return to the stage... Presuming that you still wish to... and assuming that your husband approves.”

He kept his gaze lowered and away from her, so he missed the wry smirk that passed over her face at his mention of a _husband_ \- she couldn’t imagine a world where Erik wouldn’t want her up on stage, even after she had had his children. Would he sit up in Box Five with a squirming toddler on his lap, pointing down at her on stage as she sang, telling their child _Look, there is your Mama!_, would she enter her dressing room afterwards and hear tiny fists banging on the back of the glass of her mirror? She wasn’t eager to hurry and have a baby, and she felt she knew well him enough to assume that if she asked him to, he would refrain from anything that could cause her to conceive, but, well - maybe _she_ didn’t wish to refrain. And if a child came of it, at least she knew it wouldn’t be the end of her career. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, she thought with a blush, to have Erik’s child. 

She felt rather bad for him, though - he clearly didn’t know why she was asking, and she certainly couldn’t let him know the reason now, either. She had wanted to tell him with some modicum of tact, not a rushed explanation of her questions being in regard to their own hypothetical children. He would surely pass out if she came on too strong, and what could be stronger than asking _Erik, what would we do if you got me pregnant?_

“Christine,” his voice wavered as he compulsively ran his shaking hands through the hair of his wig over and over. “Is this- is this something- are you- right now?”

He knew it was horribly inappropriate to ask her something like that, but he didn’t think he’d have a moment’s rest until he knew. 

Her eyes widened. 

“No,” she supplied quickly. “No, I’m not. It’s just... Well, these things _do_ happen... I just wanted to know... Just in case.”

His hands dug anxiously at his cravat, pulling on it and straightening it. He stared straight ahead, still unable to meet her eye. 

He wanted her to trust him, and was this not proof of how much she did trust him? It likely took an enormous amount of courage for her to ask him that. In a similar vein, he should dredge up all the courage he could muster in order to answer her bravely spoken questions. 

“You could still continue your career, but it would more difficult to do so. However... there are methods,” he choked out. “Of preventing that sort of thing.”

He felt another wave of heat crash across his face as soon as the words were out. He very nearly regretted saying it at all - he could just picture her innocent head tilt as confusion fluttered across her features while she asked _What do you mean, Erik? What kind of methods?_ But would it not be better in the long run if she knew? She could still have her career if she had a child, but with so many variables and concern over her reputation, it would truly be easiest if she didn’t have to worry about that at all. He didn’t think he could ever face her again if he had to explain such methods to her, but the poor girl had no family from whom she could learn these things from, and really, Erik had enough knowledge on this subject. 

He had never had need of them himself, of course - he was still a virgin, and at his age, he assumed he always be (unless, of course, he made use of one the girls who would exchange an evening for a sum of money, but he wanted someone who would be with him because of _him_, not because of his money, and who would ever truly want to be with him?)- but he was in contact with a number of unsavory characters who could smuggle nearly anything a person wanted, and such items were still rather frowned upon as morally wrong. Erik always had been one to learn as much as he could about things that caught his interest (the thought of being able to experience the joys of the flesh with a far lessened chance of infecting some poor woman with his demon spawn had most definitely caught his interest). There were things that the man could use, and things that she could use, and all of them were supposed to work quite well. His mind was working overtime trying to think of polite ways to explain what they were and how they were used and he was coming up empty handed. 

To his everlasting relief, however, she merely nodded. 

“I know,” she said, her face growing redder as she wrapped her arms across herself. “All the girls talk.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, then hesitated. He felt like he was watching himself from very far away as he spoke again. 

“Christine... if you ever need me to buy something for you...”

She shouldn’t have to sully her reputation in seeking those things out - he had no reputation left, it didn’t matter for him. It hurt to think of buying something she’d be using with the boy, or with some other man, and he felt it was obscenely far past any sort of propriety for them to discuss it so, but he’d rather allow himself some hurt than to allow Christine to be put in a position that could jeopardize her in any way. 

“Anything at all, Christine - just write it on a piece of paper, and I’ll get it for you.”

She was struck with both embarrassment and gratefulness - it surely wasn’t easy for him to offer that. 

“I don’t need anything,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to know, for future reference. About what would happen. If I was still able to keep performing.”

She hesitated a moment then continued. 

“But thank you. You’re always so exceedingly generous with me. I appreciate it, truly.”

He nodded, but didn’t look at her. He didn’t know if he could ever look at her again. She had come to him seeking fatherly advice, and his own wrong feelings towards her had made it awkward. He felt twinge of uncertainty - she knew he loved her. Surely she realized the kind of love he had for her was not paternal love? Was she trying to rub salt in the wound and remind him of what would never be his? But no, that wasn’t like her at all. She must think of him like she’d think of her own Papa, or some other family member or trusted relation to whom such a question could be posed without great impropriety. Unless- 

“Are you sure you aren’t-?” he blurted out. 

“Erik!” she put her hands over her stomach, scandalized. “I think I would know!”

“Forgive me,” he winced. 

Her face softened. 

“You’re already forgiven. But as I said, I was merely asking for the future...” she trailed off, and suddenly gained a little nerve - she had already been terribly bold with him, she might as well push that boldness just a little more. “I have been thinking a great deal lately. About marriage. About... what comes after. I should think... I would like to get m-married soon.”

“I had a feeling,” Erik murmured. 

Her eyes lit up. 

“Oh?” she asked hopefully. 

“Yes. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until the boy asks. You have my congratulations in advance,” he said stiffly, and he left the room. 

Her face fell as she watched him leave. She was at a loss. She had wanted to confess her feelings for him, and instead he had thought her only giving him advance warning that she might put her career on hold because she was getting married to Raoul. 

She followed him. She had to set him right, had to let him know he had nothing to worry about - he would never lose her to Raoul or to anyone, never. 

He was on his way to his bedroom. When he glanced behind and saw her following him, he paused. 

“There is stew on the stove,” he told her, still avoiding looking directly at her. “You may have as much as you wish for dinner.”

He turned to go to his room. 

“Aren’t- aren’t you going to have any?”

“I’m far too busy, I’m afraid,” he could tell she was about to protest again. “Please, Christine, I do not wish to discuss anything else tonight.”

He went in his room and quickly the door. 

Her hands balled into fists. She turned on her heel and went to her own room, embarrassed and frustrated. She hadn’t meant for their conversation to go that way. Somehow it had turned to Raoul and now Erik was avoiding her, painfully so. Hadn’t he already told her he was finished with work? Hadn’t he been looking for a book to relax with before she had ambushed him with questions about _that_? 

He had a mind that always suspected the worst of motives and intentions, and she knew it would be something they both would struggle with in the years ahead of them. It made having a regular conversation difficult, at times. But if only they could talk it through! 

He ended up avoiding her for the rest of the night, and for half of the following day. 

He hated the boy for even existing. He hated how bitter he felt about the situation. He hated himself for behaving so cowardly and hiding away from her. It wasn’t her fault she was young and lovely and had caught the boy’s eye. 

The evening’s conversation had only served to remind him of how swiftly his time with her was running out. A mere handful of days, then she would be engaged, then it surely wouldn’t be terribly long before she did have a child. He lay in his coffin, sulking. She might have any number of children, really. Who knew if she would find she preferred being a mother to being on stage? Because he hated himself, he tortured his mind in trying to imagine what Christine’s children might look like. Blond hair, of course, just like hers... Just like Raoul’s. Would they sing, too? He wondered what her first child would be - an adorable little girl, just like her mother? Or a little boy, with curly hair and wide eyes? He seemed to picture each of them favoring Christine in their looks, regardless - perhaps his mind was trying to avoid the reality of the other half of them coming from the Vicomte. But the little family would do very well with a Vicomte as a father, as a husband. Christine would be well taken care of, and her children would look beautiful - far more beautiful than any child Erik could give her, certainly. 

He was being ridiculous, he knew. Christine cared about him, deeply. It might not be love, not the kind he wanted from her, but she did care. And she trusted him, likely far more than she trusted any other person. She was beyond kind to him. Could he truly expect any more from her? Had she not already given him as much as she could give? Things were good between them, and he should enjoy it while it lasted. He would be the luckiest man on earth if she still wanted to sing after her child was old enough to be looked after by someone else, and from the sounds of it, perhaps that was what she wanted as well. Maybe he should go see a doctor, after all - wouldn’t it be worth it if he could still spend time around her after she was a Vicomtess?

He emerged the next day, a little embarrassed. The ballet rats were having extra dress rehearsal on stage, and he had promised Christine a week ago that the two of them would watch it from Box Five. 

Her face lit up expectantly when she saw him at last. He smiled sheepishly. 

“No lesson today, my dear - I want you to rest your voice. I don’t want you to tax yourself at all today. But I trust you feel up to watching a show this evening?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” she grinned. 

She had been looking forward to this for days, and had seriously thought he had, perhaps, forgotten, or even that he no longer felt like going after what had transpired. 

But this was his second to last day with Christine in his house, and his last night with her staying there, and he was not about skip or miss any event they had planned together.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik smiled as he saw her approach the entryway where he was waiting. For some reason unknown to him, she had seen fit to dress up as though they were truly going to sit in the audience of an actual show. 

“You know no one is actually going to see us, correct?” he chuckled. 

“I know,” she said peevishly, but she smiled. 

She left out the retort that _he_ was seeing her, and that was all that mattered to her. Her dark blue dress with ruffles all down the back of the skirt and the neckline just a little lower than her regular dresses were cut had been chosen with only him in mind. So too, had the pearl necklace and earrings, and the light dusting of dark powder over her eyelids and the red color on her lips. Her hair, which, had he been anyone else, she would have rolled and pinned into something elegant and sophisticated, she chosen to let hang freely down her back, held in place by two little pins on either side of her head - the bare minimum she could get away with and still protest that it wasn’t _entirely_ provocative or unladylike to let her hair hang so. And it had worked - he had noticed, clearly. 

She worried silently for him as they went above, over how he had to pause on the stairs every now and then. She breathed a little sigh of relief when they finally emerged from the hollow pillar in Box Five and he sat down in one of the chairs. Rest, she had noticed, always seemed to help him feel better. 

She sat in the chair next to him, far more excited than she normally would be to watch the ballet corps do a dress rehearsal. It was him, she realized - being there with him. She felt like they were a real couple out on a date, and it made her face feel warm. 

They had arrived just in time - the music was starting. They stared down at the dancers, and Christine watched Meg especially. She had become a beautiful dancer, and she thought that perhaps Meg has been wrong in her assessment of herself - she might become a prima ballerina one day, after all. 

“Do you miss dancing, Christine?” he asked softly and glanced at her. 

“Sometimes,” she said after she thought about it. “I miss dancing, but I think I miss being with my friends more. It’s just different, when you’re all in class together...”

Ever since gaining larger parts for singing, she had been cut from the ballet corps. She still lived in the same dormitory with them, and saw them all quite often, but it truly was different now that she didn’t go through the same exercises and regimen and struggles as them. 

She lowered her eyelashes. 

“Do you miss watching me dance?” she asked coyly. 

He shifted around nervously. 

“That’s not why I asked,” he said, his voice wary. 

She laughed lightly. 

“If I could, I’d do both. But if I had to choose, I’d pick singing, every time,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still wish...”

She shrugged a little.

“But if I was down there in the corps, how could I be up here with you?” she added, and smiled at him in the dim light reflected from the stage. 

A glimmer of a smile passed across his face, and they watched in silence for a little while. 

She remembered something she had brought along in her pocket, and pulled it out, drawing a glance from Erik. It was a fan - a tool much employed by nearly every girl at the opera and beyond. Perhaps it could speak where she could not. 

She, like all the other girls and a great number of young men, had very nearly memorized all of the secret messages that could be sent with certain gestures. She had used them, on occasion, to flirt with Raoul from across the room at events or outings. She wasn’t entirely certain if Erik knew every meaning as she did, but surely he spent enough time around the opera house to know some of them. 

She felt she could be bold, here. She was merely toying with her fan, was she not? If he happened to see, and happened to infer some kind of meaning, well...

She opened it and fluttered it in front of herself a moment until she was certain he was looking, and then she drew it slowly across her cheek - _I love you_. He stared blankly at her, then his brow furrowed. Ah, yes, this was it! He was understanding! A faint blush on her cheeks, she closed the fan and gripped it tightly, pressing the handle to her lips - a gesture to request a kiss. 

“Christine-“

She looked up at him, eyes bright. 

“Is it too stuffy in the Box for you? Would you prefer some fresh air down in the regular seats instead?”

Her own brow furrowed in confusion. 

“You- you think I brought my fan because- because the air is stuffy?”

He shrugged. 

“Why do any of the women bring fans with them all the time? The air gets stale here easily,” he gestured to the opera house. 

She stared at him, mouth agape. She was uncomfortably reminded of how much older he was than her - fan language was widely known amount the youth, but here was Erik... She shook her head and sighed, setting the fan on the ledge in front of them. 

The music changed, and suddenly it was Sorelli’s first solo. Christine loved watching Sorelli dance. And she wasn’t the only one - she noticed, down in the front row, an admirer watching her intently. Phillipe. Christine’s heart did a flip. Raoul would be back soon, and she needed to tell him. 

Erik followed her gaze and saw the Comte in the audience. He pressed his lips into straight line. The shadow of the de Chagnys always hung over him, it seemed. 

Sorelli’s solo ended, and she walked lightly on her toes to the front of the stage before taking a graceful bow. Philippe jumped to his feet, applauding her loudly. She tried to smother her laughter as the lone round of applause rang out and she looked everywhere but at her lover who gazing at her like she was the only thing in the world. 

Christine couldn’t help but smile at the scene below. She wished dearly that things were different for the two of them, that Philippe would feel he could let that same adoration for the prima ballerina show in front of his friends and peers. 

“I am sorry, Christine,” Erik said, drawing her thoughts back to her own situation. 

“What for?”

“For being short with you yesterday, and for avoiding you. It wasn’t your fault.”

She reached across and placed her hand over top of his on the armrest. 

“I am loath to admit it,” he continued slowly. “But sometimes, when you speak of the future like that, it feels like losing you, even though I am well aware that you are not mine lose.”

She felt her heart melt for him. Poor Erik. 

“I will always be yours, Erik,” she tried. “Your student. Your friend.”

He squeezed her hand. 

“Christine, you are-“ he hesitated, and studied her closely in the near darkness. 

He had always been so insistent in his own mind to refer to her as a _girl_ or a _child_, little ways of distancing himself from the feelings he felt for her, little ways of reminding himself that he felt towards her was despicable and wrong. But the truth was that she was not a child, she was a grown woman and she had been for quite some time now. She was no longer, even, the girl that he had tricked all those years ago. She was a woman, for better or worse, and it was time he recognized that. Women got married. Women could choose to not sing anymore, or to continue to sing but not take lessons. Women could pick their own path in life, and sometimes they picked paths that no longer included their mentor. 

“You are a remarkable woman. And I don’t simply mean in your looks or even just in your voice, though... neither one of those is in any way lacking,” he kept his eyes trained on the stage, shy. “What I mean is that you are a rare jewel, and the Vicomte will be very lucky to have you. I am a very foolish man, but even I can see that. Raoul is going to propose to you, very soon, I’m sure, and when he does...”

Christine leaned closer to him, their hands still entwined. She brushed her thumb across his fingers. He swallowed hard. 

“When he does, you should accept. I know- I know that I have... _said things_, in the past, but- I want you to marry the Vicomte. When the time comes.”

She squeezed his hand tightly, a gesture he returned. 

For a moment she was simply overcome. Was he releasing her? Did he not love her anymore? But no - his hand was trembling and his voice had wavered with unshed tears - he loved her. He loved her enough to give his blessing to a relationship that he thought she wanted. It felt like an arrow through the chest, to both of them. 

“Oh, Erik,” she whispered. 

He didn’t let go of her hand, and she made no movement to pull away from him. 

“Erik,” she spoke softly. “When I brought up my question yesterday, I wasn’t speaking of Raoul.”

It was perfect, this moment. Cloaked in shadows and velvet and surrounded by music, right next to the stage and in the Box that factored so heavily into their lives - on the heels of what could only be seen as yet another confession of his love for her - it was time. 

“I was speaking about y-“

A knock on the door made her jump. 

Erik turned to look at the doorway. Christine could feel her heart beating in her throat. 

“Are you in here?” came the whispered voice of the Daroga. 

Erik huffed as he stood and unlocked the door before sitting back down. 

“What is it this time, Daroga?” Erik asked when he finally entered the Box. 

Nadir smiled at his old friend, and then his eyes widened when he saw Christine sitting beside him. 

Christine was glaring daggers at him in a manner she could only have picked up from being around Erik. She grabbed at her fan on the ledge and twirled it less than nonchalantly in her left hand - _leave!_. 

Nadir chuckled nervously. He knew the girls used fans to send messages to their beaus, but he wasn’t certain what, exactly, all the movements meant. It didn’t take a genius, however, to deduce that she was greatly displeased with him from the look on her face - he was likely getting insulted with the fan at that very moment. 

“Ah,” he fidgeted. “If you’re busy I can come back at a different time-“

“Nonsense,” Erik waved a hand. “What is it you wanted?” 

He was afraid that if the man left and he had to continue that conversation with Christine, he would end up weeping into the hem of her dress before the night was over. It might not have been Raoul she had been speaking of, but it was someone. It didn’t matter who, not really - she would marry someone and it would never be him. Did she already have someone in mind? Had she already met a man she had fallen for? Or was she, perhaps, about to take a route that some of the other girls took to find a husband - spending time in one of the great salons after performances in hopes of finding a patron who might become a husband? Was that why she had been asking about having a child? If she was going to open herself to giving patrons services... would she, perhaps... consider... him, as well? He had money. He had lots of money. He wouldn’t demand that she be his exclusively, either. But how could he pay her when everything he had was already hers and always would be? What if she didn’t even want him, not for any amount of money? He could picture in striking detail going into the salon and seeing her there in all her finery, approaching her and asking, politely, for just one evening with her - just one hour! - assuring her that he would be gentle and considerate with her, promising that she would enjoy it too, only to be turned down. Oh, he could weep forever at the mere thought of it! 

Christine dropped her fan and crossed her arms, pouting. What was it Erik was always calling Nadir? _Nosy old man, troublesome meddling Daroga_ \- yes, she could see it now. It was true. It was all true. 

“I had needed to tell you that I won’t be able to meet for dinner next week after all, but could we do tea instead the following week?”

Erik nodded. 

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Good, good. I’m glad I was able to catch you, I didn’t want you to be waiting for me when I couldn’t show up.”

“What do you think of the corps, Nadir? There’s a few new girls in it. And of course our Christine is noticeably absent, so of course the quality has gone down, but overall-?”

Nadir glanced at Christine, hoping Erik’s flattery had softened her. It hadn’t. She glowered at him as forcefully as ever. It was a strange day indeed when Erik was the more friendly of the two. 

“They’ve done well for themselves, I think. A little off time here and there, but it’s still quite enjoyable.”

“And I trust you’ll be here opening night for our great triumph?” Erik sat up straighter, puffing out his chest just a little. 

What was Erik doing? Christine was fuming. Was he actually stalling Nadir into staying longer? Send the man on his way! She wanted to yell. 

“Of course I’ll be here - I wouldn’t miss it! I’m so proud of both of you, especially you, Mlle Daaé.”

Mlle Daaé glared down at the ballerinas, ignoring him. 

He and Erik spoke a little while longer before he finally left them alone once more. The ballet rehearsal was more than halfway over. With the Daroga finally gone, Erik reached over once more and held her hand, a gesture he was frightened might be rebuffed, but she allowed it, and he could see her smile starting to return. 

They watched the rest of the show in comfortable silence, with an occasional remark or two on what was happened on the stage, but Christine could tell the moment had passed. Perhaps she could tell him tonight, in his home, where no one and no thing could interrupt them. 

“Oh, they were beautiful,” Christine sighed as they all took a final bow. 

For the briefest second, she almost wished she was back in the corps, standing there between Alexis and Meg, wearing matching costumes. It wasn’t what she had dreamed of as a child, but it was familiar and comfortable and didn’t make her stomach squirm the way the thought of being prima donna did. 

“One more night, Christine,” he squeezed her hand. “You’ll be beautiful, too.”

She swallowed against a lump in her throat. She hoped he was right. 

They returned downstairs once more, and once more Erik seemed a little out of breath. 

It was only when they were halfway across the lake that Christine turned to him suddenly. 

“Oh! I forgot my fan!”

They both paused, then she frowned. 

“I suppose it doesn’t matter...”

“I will bring it to you, Christine,” he promised. “I’ll be in Box Five on opening night, and I can pick it up for you then. Assuming, of course, that Madame Giry doesn’t find it it first. I suppose the Ghost can ask for it from her,” he added with a chuckle. 

Christine smiled at the thought of Meg’s mother finding a lady’s fan in the Ghost’s Box when she was overseeing that it was properly kept. Would she start a rumor, perhaps? That the Ghost had brought a lady with him? She could only imagine the kind of stories the rest of the ballet rats would be whispering after that. She blushed a little - she liked the idea of being the Ghost’s Lady. 

“It was a very lovely evening, Erik. Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Christine.”

“It meant a lot to me. I know how you hate having anyone else in your Box,” she teased. 

They were nearing the shore. She knew he didn’t like talking very much anymore as he was rowing, but she figured he had gotten through the worst of it and it was okay to talk now. And they had a lot to talk about. 

She told a little joke as he tied the boat to the dock, and this was the part she replayed her mind over and over that evening as she cried and failed to sleep. She couldn’t even recall, later, what the joke was - something silly, but Erik had laughed at it, and her heart leapt at the sound. The thought that _she_ was the one to make him laugh filled her with ineffable joy, but it was also the part that she couldn’t forgive herself for - for when Erik laughed, he was distracted from morning the boat, and as such he must have tied the knot wrong. He helped her up to the dock, and as she smoothed out her skirts she readied herself to segue into telling him her feelings. 

“You know, Erik, I-“

She stopped noticing the boat beginning to float away - the rope had come undone. Erik noticed it too, and leapt to grab at it. 

“Oh, no - let me help you!” Christine’s eyes widened in fear. 

Still clutching the pole in his hands he stabbed it into the boat and attempted to pull it closer to shore. Christine fretted and tried to help - she knew he always felt worse after anything that strained him. When it was close enough for him to reach (but not close enough for her to reach, her arms were far too short) he stooped down and pulled at the hull until it was close enough to redo the knot to hold it in place. 

“There,” he said, and stood up quickly. 

Far too quickly, for suddenly the room was spinning and he lurched to the side. He managed to brace himself against the wall and saved himself from falling entirely to the ground, but Christine gave a little scream anyway. 

“Erik!” she cried. 

“I’m fine,” he said without real conviction. “I’m fine, Christine, I just lost my footing, that’s all.”

But she knew that lost footing wouldn’t cause him to clutch at his chest so. 

He stayed there against the wall for a long moment, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself any further. He still felt like he might fall, like there was blood in his head at all, no air to breathe. He swallowed hard. It had never been this bad before, and the thought that perhaps that was because he had never had to stoop and pull a boat to the dock did little to comfort him in that moment. 

He pushed off the wall. 

“I’m fine,” he told her quietly, not able to bear the heartbreaking concern in her eyes. 

He put at an arm around her shoulder as they walked up to his house, and she put her arm around his waist. She seemed to understand that he wanted and needed something to steady him so he wouldn’t fall again, even though he tried to pass it off as being for her own benefit. 

Once inside he shucked off his jacket and vest, hanging them with trembling hands on the coatrack in the entryway. 

“Do you need me to get you anything?” she asked softly. 

He shook his head. 

She followed him as he went down the hallway, stopping when she saw him enter his bedroom. She bit her lip, then turned and went into her own room. Once there she took off her jewelry and removed the two pins from her hair. She didn’t have time to change her dress before she heard Erik’s door open and close again. 

He had hoped laying down would ease the pain and dizziness, but suddenly the thought of laying in a coffin was unappealing, and was worried that once he tried to get up again the same thing would happen all over again. 

He left his room and headed for the sitting room instead. A second later Christine followed him. 

She stood in the doorway a moment, watching him as he sat on the couch. He frowned down at the book he was holding with one hand, his eyes unfocused and his other hand resting over his heart. He shifted uncomfortably, and she felt her own heart beating in her throat. 

“Erik,” she said in a small voice. 

He looked up, surprised. He hadn’t heard her there, had been too focused on the painful ache and squeeze in his chest. He wanted to ask her if she needed something, but breath was hard to come by. 

“Erik, do you know how important you are to me?”

He cocked his head, curious. 

She put her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t see how nervously she fiddled with them. 

“You mean so very much to me, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she continued. “I don’t just mean in regards to singing.”

She paused, looking down at her feet. 

“You’re my closest friend, did you know that?” she smiled weakly. “I feel like I can trust you with anything... and I’d like to hope that you feel the same, about trusting me...”

She cleared her throat before continuing softly. 

“I don’t think you’ve been feeling well, Erik. And I know that you don’t owe me any explanations, and you don’t have to tell me anything that don’t want to, but-“ she blinked hard, frowning. “I can tell that you aren’t well. A-and I just wanted to let you know how much you mean to me, and how much I care about you.”

He looked away from her, finally able to take a deep breath. So that’s what this was all about - she thought he was on his way out and wanted to clear her conscience in case she didn’t get a proper farewell. 

“And if there’s anything I can do for you, any way I could help you, please, I want to know,” her voice trembled. “You’re so very dear to me, Erik, and I can’t bear to see you suffer or be in pain.”

He studied her closely now, setting his book on the side table, forgotten. All these words, and yet the not the ones his foolish heart still yearned to hear, those three little words that would never pass her lips, and still, _still_ he dreamed of them. 

He should be content with what he got, he knew this. And he was. If it truly was as Christine - and he - feared, hearing her say the words she was saying now offered a bit of closure, at least. They were nice words to hear, and he could definitely pretend they were true. Did she really mean them? Would she be saying them if he wasn’t currently clutching at his heart, about to keel over? He didn’t think so, but- they were nice words to hear, all the same. Especially considering they might be among the last he’d hear from her. 

He nodded a little and patted the cushion next to him. 

“Come sit with me,” he said, his breath thankfully coming easier so he didn’t struggle with the words. 

She crossed the room and sat down. 

“Can I get you anything?” she asked anxiously. “Some tea? Or soup?”

“No,” he said. “No, just- just stay with me for a little while, please.”

She nodded, still watching him with concern. 

He knew it was overstepping his bounds, knew that it wasn’t proper in the least, but he was only a man - heaven help him, he was just a man, and he was frightened, scared of his own demise that drew closer and closer every day, every hour, scared of how alone he felt, how alone he had been his entire life and how he knew it was going to end that way, too - and that was what caused him to ask. 

That whispered plea, spoken into the silence between them, thick with the knowledge that she would likely say no and he would be alone again, all alone, even at the very end-

“May I hold you?”

But she didn’t flee, didn’t try to escape. She moved closer to him, sitting right next to him, their legs touching, and rested her head on his chest and her hands on his shoulders as his arms went around her. 

“Oh, Christine,” he breathed. 

She closed her eyes. She wanted to say it, wanted to tell him - what would she do if she never got the chance to tell him? But to tell him in a moment like this - he would assume she was saying it because she felt bad for him, saying it out of pity to try to comfort him. She didn’t want the first time those words were said to be tainted by worry for his wellbeing or for him to have to wonder at her motivation. She squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter and prayed that she wasn’t making a mistake, that she would get another opportunity to tell him. 

He brought one hand up to caress her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. 

“You’re such a good girl, Christine. You are too kind to Erik, he does not deserve it,” he murmured. 

She glanced up at him. Even now he didn’t seem to believe that she was here in his arms because _she_ wanted it, too - he thought it was only because she was trying to be kind to him. How could she ever make him see otherwise? It would be a challenge, but she swore to herself she’d find a way. 

“I’m afraid you’re right, sweet,” he sighed as he continued the gentle sweep of his thumb. “I- I have not been feeling well tonight. I have not been feeling well for some time, actually.”

Her hands squeezed in the fabric of his shirt. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, with the show coming up.”

“Well, is it serious? What does the doctor say?”

He was quiet a moment. 

“I haven’t seen a doctor yet, but I plan on it. Soon.”

“Promise?” she looked up at him, her eyes watery. “Do you promise?”

“I promise, Christine.”

She nodded and leaned her head against him once more. 

“Is it- is it very bad?” she asked in a small voice. 

“It’s painful, at times. But it’s not a constant pain. It comes and goes.”

“Oh.”

The pain in his chest was already easing as it always did with rest, but he couldn’t help but feel that a large part of feeling better was due to having Christine in his arms. He smiled. He was so lucky to have her in his life. She was so willing to do anything for him, even this. She would make a fine wife for the boy one day, he thought. Perhaps that day was sooner than anyone expected, too - would she still keep singing after he was gone? He hoped so. He hoped she’d continue as the prima donna for at least a while before she retired to become a vicomtesse - prima donna had been her dream for so long, after all. 

“There, now,” he murmured against her hair. “The pain is already leaving, sweet. I’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?” her voice held a slight tremble. “How soon are you seeing the doctor?”

“Not for a little while yet, I don’t think. After opening night, at least.”

“Oh, Erik-“

“I’ve lasted this long, Christine, I’m sure I’ll last another week longer.”

She pressed herself closer to him. 

“I hope so,” she whispered. 

“Of course I will, I have to,” he squeezed her a little. “I have to see your magnificent debut as prima donna, don’t I?”

She laughed a little then sniffled. 

“Don’t think you’re off the hook just because I’m prima donna now - I’m liable to suddenly forget everything I know about singing, you know. _Highly_ liable. I need you here with me still, for a long time.”

“Hmm. I will try.”

More time with Christine Daaé. What he wouldn’t give for such a thing. 

“You have to do more than _try_, Erik,” she kept her face against him but sounded peeved. 

“Not even a diva yet and already making her demands,” he mused, and she made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. 

He held her for a while longer, neither one speaking. It was what he had been longing for so desperately, finally happening, and it was just as wonderful as he’d always dreamed. He let his eyes close as he focused solely on the sensation of her so close to him in his arms. If this was it, he could go happy. He didn’t want to go, but- if he had to, at least he got to hold her. He would have liked, he supposed, if their positions had been reversed - if _she_ had been the one holding _him_. What would it feel like, he wondered, to lean against her the way she was leaning on him, to rest his head on her bosom? Still, he liked how they were currently sitting, and to be the one being held would feel far too much like admitting he needed comfort (he did) or facing that the end was likely near (let him pretend, please, just a little while longer). He was holding her, and he could not complain. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually he realized it was getting quite late, and with the performance the day after next, Christine needed her rest. He patted her back and pulled away reluctantly. 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “For indulging an old man in his wishes.”

She wouldn’t meet his eye, her hands still on his shoulders, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on his collar. 

“You’re not that old,” she said softly. 

Erik was quiet, uncertain how to respond to that. He simply let her sit there since she didn’t seem intent on moving away just yet. 

She finally looked up at him. Her eyes studied his face, once more drawn to his lips. She wanted so badly to kiss him - after all, perhaps that was what would convince him of her feelings. But no, he would still think it was done only for his benefit, a kiss sparked by pity. And what if it shocked him so much that it sent his poor heart into a fit? A little wry smile appeared on her lips at the thought, though she knew it wasn’t funny at all - a reverse of the tale of Sleeping Beauty - true love’s kiss might cause him to fall into an eternal slumber, and she didn’t want that to happen. True love wasn’t about kisses, after all - it was about doing what was best for the other party. 

She let one hand slide down from his shoulder and rest on his chest, just over his heart, and she felt an ache in her own heart. Her Angel’s heart - she could feel its steady beat underneath of her hand, and it seemed unthinkable that it could ever stop, even as the threat of it doing just that felt all too real. 

“I’ll see you in the morning?” her voice was soft. 

He could only nod. 

“In the morning,” he whispered, and let his hands fall from their place at her waist. 

She stood up reluctantly, as though he’d simply disappear once she took her eyes off of him. She took a step backwards, her eyes still locked on his. 

“In the morning, then,” she nodded, licking her lips which felt terribly dry. “I’ll see you then.”

Another step backwards. 

She glanced down suddenly, the back of her legs bumping into his coffee table. 

She looked back up at him quickly, and he was still there, still watching her. She breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Goodnight, Erik,” she said wistfully. 

“Goodnight, Christine,” his voice held all the unspoken things he felt for her, all the things he dared not say out loud. 

She walked the short distance to her room, closing the door but not locking it, not bothering even to change her clothes as she fell face first onto her bed, holding her pillow tightly to her. She wished she was able to cry, but though the emotion was there, the tears wouldn’t come, instead manifesting themselves as a burning, aching lump in her throat. She felt as though something was squeezing her the way she was squeezing her pillow, and she didn’t know how to make it stop. 

She wanted to run from her room and fling herself into his arms again, telling him over and over how she felt about him, to run her hands his hair and cradle his face and kiss him. Had he ever been kissed before? By anyone? Even just on the forehead? How awful if in all his many years he hadn’t! And how much worse it would be should he die without ever having received a kiss, especially now that he had someone who loved him! 

And he didn’t even know it. 

It was as if her entire body ached with the weight of the unspoken words. She sat up and debated the wisdom of waiting to tell him. How many nights had he faced all alone, in pain and scared, never saying anything? She couldn’t bear it. On one hand, if he had been dealing with this for so long, then perhaps it wasn’t terribly serious - or perhaps he was nearing the end of it. But if it had only started recently, then maybe there was still time - unless it was a very short illness. 

She flopped back onto the bed, tears beginning to finally run down her face. She felt she was going to go mad with the weight of it all. Would life be so cruel as to take him from her right after she realized she loved him? 

She stood and stripped off her dress, letting it fall to floor and quickly changed into her nightgown. 

She had half a mind to march right to his room and demand he not spend the night in his horrible coffin but in this bed with her. She wanted him close, where she could watch over him. 

But she didn’t want to tell him like this. She rubbed at her blotchy face. She was right back where she had started, wasn’t she? She hadn’t told him on that very first day nearly two weeks ago because she wasn’t certain and she didn’t want it tainted by sadness. Now she was very certain but even sadder. She didn’t want the first time he ever heard those words spoken to him to be from her tear-stained, red-eyed face. But - she wanted him to hear those words. She wanted him to still be here to be able to hear those words. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, praying fervently that Erik would still be there in the morning.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long enough to split into two chapters, but after such a long wait I felt it be unusually cruel to break it up, so here it is :’)

She awoke the next morning with a sense of dread that, for a long moment, she couldn’t put her finger on the cause of. 

The previous night came rushing back. 

She sat up, a slight pounding in her head. She dressed quickly and prepared to go find Erik, wherever he might be. 

She could still remember a day not so long ago that she had been intent on goading him into telling her if he was well or not. She had said, with all the innocence in the world and a tremble that was only half feigned, _I just can’t picture ever coming here and finding you dead on the floor! Whatever would I do?_ Erik had seemingly taken her question as literal instead of how she had intended it, and he had merely shrugged before telling her, _Just roll me into the lake, Christine._ She had burst into tears at that, and he had gone to great lengths to comfort her, but he still had not told her if he was ill. 

Well, she finally had her answer about his health. She still didn’t know the answer to what she would do without him in her life. 

But she was surprised when she saw him, already up and fully dressed, looking as though nothing in the world was wrong at all, preparing breakfast for them. 

“I have some errands to run today, sweet,” he said. 

“I’ll go with you,” she told him. 

He hesitated. 

“It’s a full day of errands, Christine. Groceries, and then I have to meet with my employer and go over some designs.”

“I want to go,” she insisted, then looked down. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

He took a step towards her and brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. 

“I never mind,” he said tenderly. “I just don’t wish for you to be bored.”

“I’m never bored. Not with you.”

They sat down to eat the quiche he had prepared. It was elaborate and delicious. 

“It’s a special occasion, after all,” he said about it. “Tomorrow is the big day.”

She noted a hint of sadness about him that she didn’t think had anything to do with his health. And why shouldn’t he be a little sad? She was going back upstairs that night, their beautiful fortnight together over - she had to be up early the next morning to prepare for the show, and that required her to stay in her dormitory in order to be on time. He must think this the end of it all, when in reality he simply couldn’t see that it was only the beginning. 

“How do you feel?” she asked weakly. 

“Just fine,” he supplied quickly. “How do you feel this morning, Christine?”

She filled with her fork and frowned down at her food. Clearly he didn’t want to discuss it. 

His face softened as he watched her. She really was worried over him. 

“I feel normal, not at all like last night,” he told her softly, truthfully. “No pain.”

She looked up and nodded hopefully. 

“That’s good,” she said. 

They finished breakfast, and afterwards she went to change into a different dress. She didn’t say why, and he’d likely assume it was simply because she liked wearing nicer things when she went out anywhere, but the truth was that she wanted to look nice when she met his boss. How she looked would reflect on Erik, she felt, and she so wanted the man to think well of him. 

He stood in the entryway and watched as she approached him, well dressed and with a smile on her face. For a brief second he felt panic rising up in his throat as he thought about their conversation the other night, but he quickly reminded himself that she had been adamant that was not currently in the family way. He had to stop his eyes from darting to _that_ place on her, as though he’d even be able to tell. Still, he supposed he had no reason not to trust that she knew her own body... and her own activities. 

“Are you certain you’re up to this today? You wouldn’t rather rest before your big debut?” he asked as they stepped into the sunlight. 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t think I could possibly get any rest,” she said. “I need to take my mind off the show, if anything.”

They strolled towards the market, taking their time. Erik seemed antsy, as he always did when he was in public, but he kept close to Christine and tried to focus solely on her. 

“It’s going to feel odd,” he mused. “Not needing groceries for two anymore.”

She bit her lip to stifle a grin. 

He _would_ be needing more groceries, he simply didn’t realize it yet. Just in a short matter of days she intended on staying with him again, and permanently this time. 

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to me not being a strain on your budget anymore, though,” she teased. 

“Christine,” he clicked his tongue. “You are nowhere near being a strain - you are far too modest in your wants and needs. Remember, you thought that bottle of brandy for one hundred francs was expensive.”

Her face colored at the memory. One hundred francs _was_ expensive - but it had also been _very_ good brandy. 

They took a detour through a row of little shops, and Christine paused in front of one of the store’s window display. There was an extravagant necklace on display, and it had caught her eye. Intricate beadwork in a pattern that looked almost lace-like, it had delicate little chains that hung down in swoops and dripped with hematite and jet stones. Her hand went to her throat without her even realizing it. It surely cost a fortune. 

Erik observed her reaction to it, her widened eyes and parted lips - he smiled at the sight of what was clearly her imagining herself wearing it. He stood next to her and tilted his head. 

“Do you like that, sweet?”

She jumped a little, not realizing he’d come that close. 

“Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” she sighed, her hand still wrapped around where the necklace would go. 

“Would you like it?”

She looked up at him, startled. 

“I don’t need it, it’s alright.”

He tutted. 

“I didn’t ask if you _needed_ it, Christine. I asked if you would like to have it.”

“Erik! You’re so silly sometimes,” she shook her head, but was still eyeing the necklace. “Let’s go get your groceries.”

Erik took note of her reluctance in leaving the display, of how her gaze lingered just a second longer as they went on down the street. He smiled. Far too modest, indeed. 

“Why don’t you go get some fruit? A few apples and some berries, if you don’t mind,” he asked, and she nodded, setting off to find them. 

He lingered behind a moment, ducking into the jewelry store. 

He caught up to her after she had finished purchasing the fruit. They then walked the rest of the market together, buying a few things here and there. Shopping was a necessary evil for him, something he dreaded at best and avoided altogether at worst, but shopping with Christine was... bearable, and on rare moments, enjoyable. Sometimes the rest of the market faded to mere background noise and it was just the two of them, laughing over a misspelled sign or disagreeing over which cheese was better or even just getting to walk so close to her. 

He took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, to appreciate the sunlight on the one side of his face, to notice how everything in that single moment felt. He wondered what people thought of the two of them, how people saw them. Christine was wearing lace gloves, but they were still thick enough to hide any determining feature of a ring, had she been wearing one. Out in the daylight, he had not sought to press such a thing on her again, to make her wear his mother’s ring again. A walk in the market was a very different thing than a dinner - there were any number of stories people could assume here in the sunlight that were not unsavory. She might be a relative of his - let people think that. A daughter, perhaps (would people think one such as him could have a daughter?). A niece or a cousin, more likely. A wife? It made him happy to think that they might pass for a couple, happy but also sad. Christine surely deserved better than a deformed suitor, and every stranger they passed on the street must surely think so as well. 

He tried his very best not to touch her. If he was too free with his touches, it would only draw attention. But, oh, how he longed to walk with an arm around her shoulders, or to hold her hand, all gestures most unbefitting how an uncle or father should be touching her, and rather suspicious actions between cousins. He refrained. If anything, his longing was only evidence that he had slipped up somewhere along the way - he was far too bold physically with her. It might not be anything more than a hand on her arm, but it was still more liberty than he should be taking from her. He must try to be better in the future... If indeed he had any semblance of a future with her in it. 

His shopping was finished, and they began the trip back to the Populaire. Erik had two paper bags in his arms, one large and one smaller. It was only a short distance before Christine noticed he started to slow his pace and frown a little. 

“Erik,” she said softly. “Do you want me to carry them?”

“Of course not, Christine, it’s perfectly fine. Don’t trouble yourself over it.”

“It’s not trouble,” she insisted. “Please?”

“It wouldn’t be right,” he shook his head. “What would people think if they saw me making you carry all the bags?”

“I don’t-“ she hesitated, then lowered her voice. “I don’t want it want to happen like it did last night... Here-“

She turned down an alley, out of view of the people who were also on the street. 

“Set the bags down a moment and rest, at least,” she gestured to some upside down empty crates, and Erik set the bags on to top of them - he _was_ feeling slightly fatigued. 

He took some deep breaths and watched as she set about pulling some of them groceries out and rearranging the contents of each bag, putting the most heavy items and as many things as she could into the smaller bag, leaving the remains few lightweight items for the large bag. 

“What are you-“

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she smiled a little, then looked up at him. “Are you feeling better?”

He nodded. 

“You take the bigger one,” she motioned to the light bag. “And I’ll take this little one. People won’t think anything unusual if I’m just carrying a small bag, especially if you have such a big one.”

He tried to protest, but she reached out and grabbed his gloved hand, and, in the same manner she had so often seen Francesca employ on men she was about to coax a little extra money out of, she brought the hand up to her face and cupped it around her cheek, nestling her face into it as she lowered her eyelashes in a most demure and enticing way. 

“Please, Angel?” she asked sweetly. "For me?"

Erik stood dumbstruck at this show, swallowing hard. Why oh why had he worn gloves today? He was putty in her hands, incapable of denying her. 

“If- if you w-wish it, Christine...”

She smiled widely, knowing she had won. 

They exited the alley, she with her small but very heavy bag, and he carrying what appeared to be the larger bag which, unseen to anyone else, contained nearly nothing. 

He blinked against an odd sting in his eyes as he glanced down at her. He couldn’t think of a single thing he had ever done to deserve her in his life. And yet, she was here, right by his side, constantly looking out for him and considering him in her decisions - he had been a believer once, when he was a small child, and then he had not been a believing man for a very long time after, and even still he doubted, but - how could one not believe in miracles when she was there with him? Christine Daaé was a miracle. 

The grocery bags were stowed away inside of the secret tunnel on the Rue Scribe side, and then they stood on the curb to wait for a cab that Erik had scheduled beforehand. It came along a few minutes later, and by the way the driver tipped his hat to Erik and greeted him with a _Good afternoon, Monsieur Travers_, Christine assumed that he often had the same driver. 

They settled themselves in the little carriage. Christine sat directly across from him, letting her foot slide over the floor of the carriage until it came to rest right where she wanted it - touching Erik’s foot. 

“How long until we get to where you work?” she asked, looking out the window and pretending to not even notice where her foot was. 

Erik stared down at her little boot, how it rested against his own shoe. Had she not noticed...? Well, _he_ was certainly not going to move his own foot. 

“Ah,” he cleared his throat, still looking at their shoes. “Bernard has his office about a hour away from here.”

“He won’t mind my coming along, will he?” she looked at him. “Will he want me to wait outside somewhere?”

He peeled his eyes away from their point of contact. 

“No, sweet, I don’t think he’ll send you away. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

They talked for a little while about his work, about his boss, Bernard, and about Erik’s clients who had never actually met him in person. 

“It’s better that way,” Erik chuckled. “Not only do they avoid _this_-“ he gestured to his face, “But I also get to avoid having to deal with them - _Oh, Monsieur Travers, we love your design but can change nearly everything_?”

Christine giggled at his affected tone, mocking his picky clients. 

“Let Bernard deal with all that,” he waved a dismissive hand. “Can you imagine? Not even the Shah of Persia asked for so many modifications as some of these people!”

Her eyebrows flew up. 

“You designed for the Shah of Persia?”

He paused. 

“I did,” he finally supplied. “But... It’s rather not talked about, my dear. The Shah still has a price on Erik’s head, you see - and if he ever found out I’m still alive, well...”

He made a slicing motion across his throat and Christine shuddered and grimaced. 

“I won’t utter a single word of it, Erik,” she swore to him. 

The carriage turned down the road on which his office was located. It was only a matter of moments until they were there. 

Erik’s eyes fell on her hands all wrapped up in their charming little gloves. They would hide the lack of a ring, at least. Still, he was nervous about how he would introduce her. How did one describe their relationship? 

_This is my student and protégée, I met her when she was seventeen, and now she lives with me, and sometimes I pretend I am married to her._

He frowned. 

Christine seemed to hold no such worry - but then Christine hardly cared for that sort of thing. He wondered, sometimes, if she truly never cared what others thought of her, or if perhaps she merely hid it well after long years of being forced into situations that others would so quickly judge. Her life had not been easy by any means. 

She was quite impressed at the building Erik worked in, a large one three stories tall with a blue roof. He held the door open for her as they walked in, and he directed her to Bernard’s office. 

He knocked once, and a man’s voice told him to enter. Erik opened the door and looked in a moment before opening it wider for Christine to enter. 

“Bernard,” he greeted him. “I hope it’s not too much bother, but Christine will be joining us today.”

Bernard smiled. 

“Ah, it’s no bother at all,” he bowed to her a little, and took her gloved hand in a gesture of greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Travers.”

Erik’s eyes went wide and he looked at Christine to see how he should respond, but she merely grinned in a most winning manner as she shook the man’s hand, her eyes sparkling. 

“Thank you, Monsieur Bernard, Erik speaks so kindly of you.”

Erik was baffled at her reaction to being called his wife, but he was quick to go along with it. 

Christine felt bubbly with joy. A darted glance at Erik showed his slight confusion, and that only made her smile all the more. Erik was the only one in the room who had yet to realize she actually was his wife, or at least that she would be soon. But wasn’t she already, really? She liked to think so. Perhaps they didn’t have a legal paper making it official, and perhaps they were not man and wife in a physical sense (not yet at least, she thought with a faint blush), but her heart belonged to him, and she realized it had for a long time now. 

She sat in the corner for the rest of the day, watching Erik work with Bernard. There were so many terms she had never heard before, so many words she didn't understand, but it was a pleasure to watch him work. He was so sure of himself here, just like he was in their lessons. It made her heart feel full to see him be able to go about his work and discuss projects with Bernard as though he were any other man, as though his face didn’t even matter. And Bernard treated him as though he were no different - simply two architects at work, discussing client expectations and budgets and styles of houses. 

“Erik, my man - you are a _genius_!” Bernard clapped him on the back. “Do you know how long I wracked my brain trying to figure out how to fix that staircase without going over budget?”

Bernard turned to Christine. 

“Your husband, Madame,” he said to her. “Is an absolute genius!”

“Oh,” she beamed. “I know.”

Erik looked away, blushing. He knew he was a genius, he knew that Bernard knew it, that Christine knew it - but he was reveling in being called _her husband_ and how easily Christine agreed to it. She always had been a very good actress. 

Her smile stayed in place for a long time as the two of them continued to discuss the staircase. He really was a genius in many regards, and it made her feel warm inside to think that a genius such as him could hold such adoring feelings for her. She really was very lucky. 

They took a small break while Bernard went to speak with his assistant in a different room. In his absence, Erik went to check on Christine. 

“How are you holding up?” he murmured, a hand on her arm. 

“Fine,” she nodded. “Your work is so complicated.”

He chuckled. 

“It certainly can be, at times.”

Bernard entered the room and smiled at the couple. How nice it was to see two people so in love. 

They worked for another hour or so, and by then it was nearly dark outside. They wrapped up their work and prepared to leave. 

“Monsieur and Madame Travers, It has been a pleasure,” he bowed as they left. 

The cab was waiting outside for them, and Erik helped her into it before he got in, settling himself across from her after closing the door. Impulsively she sprang up and sat next to him instead, hugging his arm and leaning against him. 

Erik’s breath caught in his throat. She had been so affectionate lately. He wasn’t certain of what had caused her to behave so, but he knew he was going to miss it when she finally had to go back to rehearsals and shows and the boy and didn’t have as much time to spend with him. He reached across and cupped her cheek for a moment before patting her shoulder. He knew he shouldn’t be so free with touching her, but he also knew that very soon he would no longer have the opportunity. 

She smiled as she closed her eyes and thought over the day they had shared together. Christine Travers. It had a nice ring to it, did it not? She would keep Daaé for her stage name, though. 

She loved him. It was an amazing thing, a nearly impossible thing, a wonderful thing that could only come close to being explained in the highest forms of poetry and prose and it could take a lifetime to fully say it. Such a thing must be announced in the grandest of manners with fanfare and careful attention to detail. But she didn’t just love him with this overpowering and glorious love - she loved him with an everyday love, the kind of love that was content in small moments together, moments like they had had together all day. Running errands and mundane tasks, otherwise boring and simple things, each of them made brighter and warmer because she was with him. This didn’t need grand gestures or to be shouted from rooftops - it simply _was_. 

It was with that thought that she made her decision. She hoped for a small moment that Erik would strike up a conversation and she could steer it towards what she wanted to say, but she realized it was all resting on her now - she had been still and quiet for so long after they had gotten in the carriage that he probably thought she had fallen asleep. She was tired enough to, really, but how could she sleep with such a secret buzzing around inside of her? It longed to be said, so she would say it. 

They rode that way in silence for a while, both of them tired from the long day. Erik was lost in his thoughts about what might come after opening night, about how his good times with her like this were likely over now. His mind was a million miles away, until Christine shifted against him and pulled him from his own mind, pulled him just enough into the present to hear her murmur some words that nearly made his heart stop. 

“I love you,” she nestled her face against his shoulder. 

His mouth had never felt so dry. He tried to swallow but found he couldn’t. She was dreaming, surely - she was asleep and had forgotten who she was with. She probably thought she was with the boy, that’s why she said it, that’s why she was holding him so. She was too tired and her mind was muddled and she had made a mistake. Those words - _those words_, could surely never be meant for him. 

“Christine,” he whispered hoarsely. “What did you say?”

She made a little humming noise and shyly buried her face closer into his jacket. 

He gently but urgently shook her, a hand on her shoulder to wake her. 

“Christine, wake up. What did you mean by that, sweet? What did you mean when you said-“

But he didn’t have a chance to finish his question. She released his arm and instead wrapped her arms around his neck, half leaning across his lap as she pulled him down and kissed him on the lips. 

She pulled back just enough to see the look of almost painful bafflement on his face. Well - now she finally knew what it would be like to kiss him. His lips were were oddly shaped and rather dry, and he had both clearly never kissed anyone before and obviously hadn’t been expecting her to kiss him in that moment. His hands hovered awkwardly near her, as though he couldn’t quite convince himself to touch her or pull her close. 

“I love you,” she said again softly and leaned in to kiss him again. 

This time he let his hands move to touch her, one tangling in her hair and the other sliding down her back and pressing her to him. She gasped in surprise. While he kept the movements of his mouth soft and gentle, his hands roamed her body with a passion she had not realized he possessed for her. 

Erik was a passionate man, yes, she knew that - one only had to hear his music to know that. He was passionate in his music, in his cooking, in his quests for knowledge (the massive library he owned was testament to that), in his architectural design... But he had always been so gentle with her, so tender. She knew that he loved her very much, but she hadn’t realized just how _passionately_ he felt towards her as well. It was undeniable, now, with the way he was touching her, that he had been holding back every other time he had held her. This discovery thrilled her. 

She had the same feeling of butterflies in her stomach that she had when she was kissing Raoul, but she also found it very different from kissing Raoul - the only time Raoul had ever pulled her so close had also been the only time she had pushed him away right after. With Erik pressing her body so tightly against his, she was surprised to find that instead of her first reaction being one to push him away, she only wanted to draw him closer. One of her hands made its way up to run through his hair (gently and carefully, for she knew it was only a wig). It seemed only natural, too, when she deepened the kiss, so unlike how out of the blue it had seemed with Raoul. 

She wanted to keep going, but lost in her spiral of giddy new sensations she had forgotten to breath, and had to pull back for air. 

“Oh, Christine,” he exhaled. “My dear, what’s come over you?”

He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to ever wake up. 

It had been nine months, three weeks, and one day since he had accidentally confessed his love for her and made her cry because of it, and true to his promise he had not uttered that phrase since.

Christine, having caught her breath, was ready for more. She placed each of her hands on either side of his face and peppered his mouth with kisses so that he barely even realized when her little fingers had grasped the edge of his mask. She paused, and he opened his eyes, taking a deep breath. She waited for a moment, waited for any sort of protest from him, but he was silent and all she saw in his eyes was love tinged with sadness. Her dear Erik. There was no need for sadness here, she would show him. 

She pulled the mask off and took his face in her hands again, tilting him just so, allowing her to kiss the space just above where the rest of his nose should have been and to kiss the twisted flesh over his cheekbone. 

“I love you,” she murmured against the scarred skin of his cheek. 

His eyes squeezed shut and his hands gripped her all the tighter. It was after a few more kisses to the broken side of his face that her lips came away wet. She licked her lips. Saltwater. He was silently crying. 

She stroked his hair and waited for him to adjust. 

All of it was far beyond what he ever would have dared to hope for in his wildest dreams. Was it not enough that she simply loved him? He would have settled for love, love of any sort, really - the love of a good friend, the filial love of a student towards a mentor. But she had kissed him with such a passion - he was certainly no expert in these kinds of things, but after that kiss he knew without doubt that she also desired him. The love of a wife towards her husband. 

It was already more than he ever could have asked for. When she had placed her hand on his mask, he knew what her intentions were. If it had been up to him, she would have never seen beneath his mask at all. In that moment, too, the last thing he wanted was to subject her to that sight again, but she had wanted to see him, for whatever unfathomable reason, and he could deny her nothing. 

He knew he wasn’t dreaming because not even he would have been to come up with the thought that Christine would whisper those precious words against his hideous, malformed visage. 

He blinked his eyes open and saw through the blur of tears that she was looking at him with such tender concern. He eased his hold on her and tried to smile but wasn’t certain if he succeeded. 

His silence unnerved Christine just a little. His hands had stopped their caresses, and his lack of repeating those words to her did not go unnoticed. Her fingers nervously picked at the collar of his jacket. She knew he loved her, of course he loved her - didn’t he? An irrational fear took over, one she realized was ridiculous but it frightened her all the same. What if things had changed for him? After all, she knew that not every love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea - what if he had realized her seeming lack of reciprocation and had moved on? What if he no longer felt the way he did all those many months ago on Valentine’s Day? What if that was why he was crying? Hadn’t he said just a day ago that he wanted her to marry Raoul, hadn’t he released her from his love? Her mind warred with itself, a fierce and frightening battle that lasted a mere handful of seconds but spanned the enormous depth between what she thought she was certain of and what she dreaded might have happened. 

“I love you Erik,” she whispered, trying to swallow but finding her mouth suddenly dry. “Do you still- do you lo-“

She didn’t have a chance to finish her hesitant question. He snaked his arm around her torso and pulled her close once more, his other hand buried in her hair, resting on the back of her neck. 

She shivered, not only at the contrast of his cool lips and warm breath against the shell of her ear as he whispered to her, but at the words themselves. 

“I love you more than life itself, Christine Daaé.”

He had promised her he’d never say those words again, but he could tell that more than wanting to hear him return her sentiments, she wanted the truth from him in regards to how he felt about her. He had promised her the truth, too, and so help him he would give it to her. 

With the most gentle amount of pressure, he tugged slightly at the hair at the nape of her neck, and she unhesitatingly acquiesced to his wishes, letting her head fall back in his grip as he took a shuddering breath before finally doing what he had so ached to do for so long now - he pressed his lips to her throat, that perfect, angelic throat that housed the voice of his sweetest muse, kiss after kiss to the soft skin there, as she gifted him with soft moans, stifled squeaks, and little sighs. 

How marvelous she felt in his arms, under his hands, how feminine her form, a curious mix of softness and strength. He held her before, of course, but never like this - this had never been a scenario he thought could ever occur besides in his most shame-filled imaginings late at night when the loneliness was too much for him. But Christine was truly here, and it was _she_ who had initiated it. 

“Oh, I love you,” she nearly panted, and Erik didn’t think he had ever experienced something so glorious as both hearing those words and _feeling_ them vibrate in her throat against his lips as she spoke them. 

Her hands clutched at him everywhere - his arms, his shoulders and back, his waist, even in his hair. She tried to remain careful as she ran her hand through his hair, testing the limits of his wig, letting her hand ball into a fist around those smooth black locks. It barely budged, thought it did shift a little, and somewhere in the back of her mind she was curious if perhaps he used some sort of adhesive to keep it in place. 

He was kissing lower now, at her collarbone and shoulder, his hands still squeezing and massaging, and she squirmed at the pleasant feelings he was causing. For a brief, scandalous moment, she wondered if he would press her against the worn velvet cushions and take her. It was not a wholly unpleasant idea, and thought she knew she ought to feel some sort of trepidation at the thought of such a thing happening in - of all places - a moving carriage on a busy street, she found the concept only made her heart beat faster. But her Angel’s hands made no attempt to stray past her waist and only skirted across the front of her bodice, and the thought of something more happening at that moment was dismissed. 

He kissed her skin all the way down the neckline of her dress, gently turning her so he could kiss his way back up the other side, eventually settling on her mouth again. 

Spurred on by the delicate little sounds she was making, his lust fueled mind presented him with the sudden temptation to fling her skirts up about her waist and let his hands explore what lay beneath. But no, no! As quickly as the thought arose he brutally shoved it down again. He mustn’t do that! It would only serve to frighten her, the poor thing. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if he made her feel comfortable or frightened like that, if he took more than she was willing to give. He must be careful with her, he vowed it to himself. Christine was so sweet, so trusting in how she was offering herself to him, and he knew he had to be gentle with her in return. 

“Is this what you want?” he murmured against her skin. “Is this really what you want?”

“Yes, _yes_-“

He cut off the rest of any reply with a nearly bruising kiss. He cursed himself for being so rough with her just after he had sworn not to, but he could barely stop himself, and she returned the kiss just as eagerly. She broke away for air and rested her forehead on his shoulder a moment, letting a tear or two roll down her face and onto the fine fabric of his jacket. The relief she felt at him finally knowing and finally being here with him like this was nearly tangible. 

He let her sit like that, and continued to pet her back and her hair, which he had pulled out of its bun, and he was whispering sweet nothings to her in Italian. She peeled off her gloves and threw them down to the seat before set to work on removing Erik’s cravat so she could kiss his neck. 

He tilted his head with stifled groan so she could better access the skin she was seeking, and his hands tightened their grip on her, one pressing against her back to draw her closer to him and the other fisting in her hair before tentatively reaching down and caressing the back of her thigh through her many layers of skirts. She giggled a little as his tone changed - now, instead of Italian, which she could understand, he had switched to Russian, which she had no real knowledge of - but from the way he was nearly growling the words now, he was almost certainly no longer calling her his _sweet little songbird_ and _precious flower_ \- no, this was most likely something terribly vulgar and it excited her to no end. She made a little noise of encouragement between her kisses. 

He faltered and suddenly started crying again, hugging her tightly. 

“I love you, Christine, I love you so much,” he whispered fiercely through his tears. 

“I love you too, Erik. It’s okay,” she nuzzled her nose against his jaw before kissing him on the lips. “I love you.”

How could this be possible? It was too much, simply too much. More than he ever could have dreamed of. Was this even real? But it had to be - he could still feel the bumps in the road from the carriage, could feel his leg going to sleep from the way Christine was sitting on it - all little things that he wouldn’t bother to come up with if he were dreaming. But how could this be anything other than a dream? This, now - what they had just done - his mind was adamant that this was something that he could only have _done_ to her, something he coerced her into or took from her, but every single piece of evidence refuted that - she had decided this of her own free will, she had made the first move (and many subsequent moves after that). Against all reason and logic and common sense, she wanted this just as badly as he did. 

She placed a comforting hand on his cheek. 

“Are you alright?” she asked softly. 

He took a moment to even out his breathing and nodded. 

“It is- overwhelming,” he managed. 

She smiled gently. 

“Love often is.”

His eyes met hers. Was this some kind of mockery she was pulling on him? Had someone put her up to this as a dare? But no - he could see in her eyes that she was telling the truth. He felt the last of his defenses fade away, and he allowed himself to believe her. 

“You love me?” he whispered. 

She smiled wider. 

“I love you,” she leaned in and kissed him again, long and slow. 

It was the happiest she’d been since- she couldn’t even remember. Nothing else mattered in that moment but the two of them and what they were sharing. The tension that had been steadily growing between them during her stay had finally snapped, and the relief was both amazing and infuriating. Amazing, because there was no longer any secret they had from each other - they were both on the same page and felt the same way and they each knew it, now. Infuriating because now that they had crossed this bridge that had been in front of them for so long, they found yet another bridge in the distance - one with just as much tension surrounding it, one they both desired to cross - she could feel his desire, even through all of her skirts, pressing insistently against her thigh where she sat across his lap. 

Their kiss quickly turned heated again, and in a moment of sudden boldness he broke from her mouth and placed his lips at the junction of her neck and shoulder, sucking at the skin there like he had seen patrons do to chorus girls. For he moment he feared he had been too bold, or perhaps he hadn’t done it right, but the fear washed away when Christine made a little noise of pleasure and pressed herself closer to him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. 

He had just kissed his way back up to her lips when suddenly the carriage came to a halt. A moment later there was a knock at the door and Christine flinched. They pulled back just slightly, each surprised as the outside world came crashing in on their private moment, each surprised that the world had continued to go on without them noticing. 

“Monsieur Travers? We have arrived at the Opera,” the driver said, his voice muffled by the locked door. 

Erik swallowed hard. They would have to exit the cab - but surely not like this. Christine was staring at him with wide eyes, her kiss-swollen lips parted. She quickly reached for his mask on the seat next to them, carefully putting it back on his face, but not before placing a chaste kiss to his forehead. He ran his trembling fingers through her now-tangled hair, trying to comb it into some semblance of normalcy after he had mussed it during their embraces. He noted with growing embarrassment and a creeping red heat across his face that somewhere along the line he had unconsciously pulled on her sleeves and bodice, exposing her shoulders and the top of her cleavage and causing her chemise to peek out in places. He sheepishly tugged her clothing back into place, tucking the lace of her chemise back underneath the neckline of her dress with shy and apologetic fingers. She made an attempt to redo his cravat, which he had to help her with. 

“Christine,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now what? What do we do now?”

She licked her pink lips as she thought about it, and the driver knocked on the door once more. 

“Monsieur? Is everything okay in there?” came his confused voice. 

“What we do now,” she said slowly. “Is we get out of the cab, and I’ll go to my dormitory and you go to your house.”

He huffed and pinched her arm. 

“_That’s not what I mean_.”

“I know, but-“ she gestured to cab door, where the knocking was growing louder. “But we really have to get out now.”

He smoothed a hand over his wig and mask, making certain they were in place before he opened the cab door, trying to hide the shake in his step, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Christine quickly put her gloves back on and exited with help from Erik. She placed a hand on his arm and whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Erik, and we can talk then.” He nodded, only half understanding her words. 

Feeling like he was in a daze, he paid and thanked the driver, then turned to look for Christine. She was already at the top of the stairs to the opera house, nearly running. 

He stared after her a moment, warring with himself over whether or not he should chase her, but he knew that she needed rest before her big day - and knew, also, that if he followed her, they would pick up right where they had left off in the cab and likely would not stop, and then the following morning she would be sore and not at all rested. 

With a sigh he turned and made his way to the Rue Scribe entrance and contemplated what he had just experienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally kiss and all it took was about 241,000 words to get there :’D


	18. Chapter 18

She felt terribly about running away so, not even really giving him a proper _goodnight_, especially after what she had started with him, but she did not trust herself in that moment. She knew that if she stayed there with him much longer she would find it incredibly difficult to resist going with him to his house, and once they were in his house she knew with a certainty that she would not be going back up to her dormitory that night, instead spending the entire evening with him in her bed - with him between her thighs - but she wasn’t certain whether or not they would have even made it to her bed. She hadn’t even been certain they would make it out of the cab, she thought to herself with a fierce blush and her heart pounding in her ears. 

Once in the common room for the girls dormitory she saw a small group of her friends sitting in a circle, talking. Meg looked up at her, curious. Christine pressed her lips into a flat line and lowered her eyes, slipping into her bedroom. Meg stood up and followed her. 

“Christine-?” 

Christine locked the door behind Meg, putting her hands over her own mouth before turning to face her friend, embarrassed. 

“What happened?” Meg pressed. 

With a bright blush and stifled giggles, Christine pulled at the neckline of her dress, baring the area of her neck where Erik had left a mark. 

Meg raised an eyebrow. 

“Who-“

“Erik,” she was finding it harder to keep her laughter quiet. “My tutor.”

“Chris_tine_!” Meg grinned as Christine dissolved into a fit of laughter and fell in her bed. “Was that your reward for playing the leading role on opening night?”

Christine rolled her eyes at Meg’s teasing. 

“What will he give you after the performance, I wonder?”

Christine put her hands over her face to hide how red she was turning. Meg’s wicked, knowing smile was too much for her. 

“A lover and a leading role,” Meg sighed dreamily. “This is a very eventful for time for you isn’t?”

Christine’s stomach did a funny flip. The show. It was tomorrow. Her laughter quieted, and she smiled a little wistfully. 

“Yes, it really is,” she replied. 

She wished Erik was there with her in that very moment to hold her close and ease her fears. The thought of tomorrow filled her with a dread and a longing like none she’d known before. 

She had absolutely no idea that Raoul was currently in his own bed at the de Chagny mansion, reading the letter that she had sent him two weeks ago, dreaming about holding her in his arms. 

Erik, likewise, still felt he was in a delirious stupor. He could still feel her in his arms, could still taste her on his lips. His mind alternated between marveling over how she had kissed him (Him! Kissed!) and being in awe over the words she had spoken (_I love you, Erik_). He wandered his house aimlessly, tapping his fingers and thinking and staring. He didn’t have the presence of mind to do anything productive. His nerves were thrumming too much to even think of sleeping. What could he do but replay that carriage ride over and over in his mind? He sat down heavily on the couch, closing his eyes and seeing it all perfectly before him. He felt his pulse quicken at the memory, and he half considered going upstairs to find her. 

Christine awoke the next morning in her dormitory room, disappointed, at first, to see where she was, but excited to see Erik as soon as she could. 

They had much to discuss, after all - or rather, they had one thing to discuss upon which much depended. 

She quickly dressed and readied herself for the day, all the while cursing the new director and his strange ideas - he was requiring all of the performers to check in backstage hours before they normally did, and it peeved her to no end. If not for him, she could have spent a very lovely evening with Erik! She could have woken up in her nice, soft bed with him beside her, and she could have spent a very lovely morning with him, too, not having to come upstairs until the afternoon. She sighed. 

After signing her name on the sheet of paper backstage to show she was there, Meg found her and dragged her to the corner where the other girls were eating some breakfast pastries. Christine fidgeted and nibbled on a pastry Meg handed her, too nervous to eat much of anything, but appreciative of being included. 

She sat on the floor in their circle, just like the old days when they were teenagers and all wearing tutus and tights. She looked up the rigging and flies, and studied the structure of the backstage she had been around so many times before. It all felt so familiar, yet today it felt strange, also, as though she were truly seeing it for the very first time. It would be the first time she took the stage as leading lady, and that made everything look different somehow. 

Her thoughts turned increasingly to Erik. Was he watching them? She typically tried to not look in the direction of Box Five, lest someone notice that she was oddly preoccupied with it, and today was no exception. She stood and stretched. 

“Oh, Meg,” she said, just a little on the loud side, just in case someone was listening. “I’m so tired still, I think I’m going to go my dressing room and take a little nap.”

“I’m sure you are tired, after last night,” Meg teased. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

Doreen leaned forward. 

“What does that mean? What happened last night?”

“Give me another croissant, that’s what that means,” Meg held out an expectant hand, and Doreen narrowed her eyes at Christine, but she left it at that. 

Christine had butterflies in her stomach as she made her way to her dressing room. 

Erik had a similar feeling - only his was also suffused with dread. He hadn’t heard any of the backstage talk, but he was heading for her dressing room all the same. She had to show up there _eventually_, and he didn’t mind waiting. They usually met there on show days, anyway. 

She arrived before he did, and at first she tried to sit and wait patiently, but soon enough she found herself pacing the little room. 

Erik could feel his heart in his throat as he approached her dressing room. Would they have to discuss what had happened last night? Would she want to pretend it had never happened, had she changed her mind? Perhaps the events of the previous evening were embarrassing to her. Perhaps she really hadn’t meant it after all. 

He entered her room cautiously, studying her closely to see how to take his cue. 

Christine turned around to face him. He looked uncertain, as though perhaps he still thought the previous night a dream. She knew in that moment that if she pretended it hadn’t happened, he would go right back to the way he had been before, that just like with Valentine’s Day, they would never speak of it again and he would treat her no differently than he had when he was merely her Angel. 

She smiled and held her arms out to him. 

Disbelief bloomed across his face followed by pure joy. 

He quickly strode over to her, taking her face in his hands and kissing it all over. Her hands came to rest on his wrists as he did so, a grin breaking out on her face as he peppered it with kisses. 

He pulled back for just a moment, just long enough to walk backwards and lead her to the divan where he sat down before pulling her to sit on his knee. 

It occurred to her that she had never seen him this happy before. He had laughed before, and he had smiled plenty, but he had always had a sort of hidden sadness about him even then. This - this smile was radiant and he looked positively giddy with joy, and it made her heart feel warm to see it. 

Once he was sitting down and had her settled on his thigh, he pulled her close and she eagerly met his kiss. She squirmed a little in his grip - his leg was not the most comfortable thing to sit on - but he was rubbing a hand up and down her back and there was no place she’d rather be. She clung to him tightly and let his tongue slip past her lips, a little moan escaping her throat. 

He didn’t think anything on earth could taste as sweet as Christine. 

He pulled off his gloves (why had he even bothered putting them on?) and after returning his hand to its place on her back, let the other hand play with her soft hair, just as he’d always wanted to. He twined the strands around his fingers, feeling the shape of the gentle curl, the texture so unlike his own terrible hair. She broke away from lips to kiss his neck, and he brought the handful of hair up to his nose - he had always wondered - and breathed deeply. Violets. His darling girl smelled like violets. 

“My little Christine,” he whispered tenderly.

He was quiet a long moment, simply reveling in the sensation of her kissing his cheek and neck. 

“Are we courting now, Christine?” he finally asked, shyly.

She shook her head against his shoulder. 

“No,” she said, decisively. “No, I don’t want to court.”

Erik froze, his eyes wide. She still kissed the side of his face, still wiggled a little on his leg, her arms still draped around his neck as she spoke those words that sent a chill into his heart. Time seemed to stand still. 

They were not courting? She- she did not want to court? Even after _this_? But she loved him! Love, it appeared, however, was not enough. What were they to do now? Did she plan to keep him as a secret paramour, then? Someone she could indulge in fleshly pleasures with, someone to idly pass languid hours with while her husband was away on his expeditions?

He had wanted so much more than that. Even as the thought chilled and disappointed him, even as he revolted against the idea (he wanted her body _and_ her heart, how could he bear to see her pledge herself to another, even if she did always return to him?) - he knew he would agree to it. _Of course_ he would agree to it, would agree to whatever arrangement she proposed - he was no fool, of course a taste of her was better than to never have her, of course whatever crumbs she would spare him of her attentions were better than nothing. Or rather, he _was_ a fool. A fool for her. 

All of these thoughts and resolves fluttered through his head in a mere second. She barely seemed to notice how his hands had stopped their caresses before she uttered her next words. 

“I don’t want to court, I only want to get married.”

As quickly as those words brought life back to him, they sucked the life out of him all over again. 

“What?”

Had he heard her correctly?

“I want you to marry me, Erik,” she said simply. “Will you marry me?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that it was all backwards - shouldn’t he be the one asking her? - but a glorious thing had been brought into existence, and he was not one to question that. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, Christine, I will marry you.”

She pulled herself even closer to him and they kissed passionately, and Erik had but a moment of time spent at the pinnacle of his heretofore existence before doubt, that ever-present presence, began to creep in once again. 

There were so many question in his mind - did Raoul already know? Was she only asking because she thought Raoul was taking too long? Did she think that a marriage to him wouldn’t last very long because he was ill, that in a few months she would be widowed and could then be free to marry Raoul? Was she only proposing because she was frightened of losing him from this life? Was she very certain she wanted to marry him and not the boy, was she sure he wouldn’t be better kept for an affair than a husband? So many things he wanted to bring up, to ask her, but he couldn’t find the words to express them. 

She pulled back from the kiss and he licked his lips, hesitating. 

“Christine,” he whispered. “And what of your boy?”

It was all he could manage. 

Her expression turned a little sad. 

“What about him?”

His fingers played with her hair nervously, finding it hard to continue to meet her gaze. 

“You’ve- you’ve gone with him for a very long time now. Did he- does he no longer hold your affections?”

Her first instinct was to deny she felt anything for Raoul - she knew Erik needed near constant reassurance, and she wanted to give that to him, to let him know that he didn’t have anything to worry about from the Vicomte. But more than anything, she wanted honesty between the two of them. She didn’t want any secrets, any thought unspoken - she wanted her entire soul bared to him, and she wanted him to do likewise until there was nothing else hidden, nothing unknown, until she knew him as well as she knew herself, and when he finally knew her that deeply, that intimately, he would finally understand how much she loved him and that he didn’t have a single thing to ever worry about ever again. She could not lie to him, not about this. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. 

“I do love Raoul, but-“ she swallowed against her unshed tears. “But I love you more, Erik. I’ve known him since I was a child. Those feelings don’t just go away.”

He reached his thumb up to wipe away a tear that had spilled down her cheek. 

“But you’re the one I’m here with now,” she continued. “You’re the one I picked. And I will _always_ pick you, Erik. Always.”

“If the boy had asked first, Christine-“

She pursed her lips. 

“But he didn’t. He didn’t ask. _I_ asked _you_.”

He nodded. 

“Are you certain-“

“I’ve made my choice, Erik,” she smiled softly. “And you have, too, I believe - you already said you’d marry me.”

He took one of her hands off of his shoulder and kissed it. 

“I just-“ she faltered. “I just wish there was a way to let him down easily.”

“It’s never easy to lose the one you love,” he murmured against her palm. 

She nodded and wiped away her tears. 

“And that’s what makes it so difficult - I know he loves me.”

Erik made a comforting noise of agreement, gently rubbing her back. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. 

“I just wish I had been able to tell him sooner... But he’s been away in the mountains, you know. I should have told him before I got engaged to someone else.”

He couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, she had wanted to tell Raoul beforehand because she secretly wanted him to propose first before she brought it up to Erik. 

She had only wanted to give him advance warning, wanted to be up front about it all with him. They had promised each other that, long ago. She knew if she felt seriously about someone else that she should let him know - but how could she have? When she had sent her letter, she wasn’t entirely certain. But now she was. And she would see Raoul tonight and have to let him know. 

“I’m not looking forward to telling him,” she pulled back a little so she could look him in the eye. “But I _am_ looking forward to this... To us.”

He kissed her cheek. 

“I’m so happy about you and I, Erik, please don’t think I’m not. It’s just- Raoul and I were never exclusive, we each agreed on that, but- he hasn’t seen anyone but me - I actually don’t think he ever has. It’s just been me. I’m sure it’s not going to be easy to hear that I’ve picked someone else.”

“Christine... I would give you up, if you asked me to,” he said quietly. “And I think... if the boy loves you even half as much as I love you, I think he would do the same. If it made you happy. Even if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t make me happy to hurt him,” she sniffled. 

“Of course not, sweet. You’re a good girl, you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

She wound her arms around his neck and hugged him. 

“I’m _your_ good girl,” she whispered. “And I will always be yours.”

He hugged her tightly and closed his eyes for a moment. She was making a mistake, he was certain of it. She should discuss it with the boy first. He would surely like a chance to offer her his heart, to receive an opportunity to ask for her hand. Was Christine very certain? He could go places and function in a number of social settings, but he would never be able to offer her the kind of life that Raoul would. Money could buy very many things, and Erik had enough to rival the Vicomte, but what money couldn’t buy was social standing and acceptance. Raoul was well liked among his peers. Erik was feared by nearly every person he came into contact with. Besides-

“Christine, we can’t get married, I’m afraid.”

She pulled back, surprised. 

“Why not?” 

Her face looked the picture of pouting innocence and wanted nothing more than to kiss her sadness away and not have to face the reality of their situation. 

“Because I’m not a person, Christine.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. 

“_Erik_,” she said, exasperated. “We have _been over_ this - you are _not_ a monster, you are a good man and most definitely a _person_.”

“Ah, hm,” he cleared his throat. “No, my dear, that is not what I meant... this time. I mean _legally_. I don’t have any of the papers that would need to be on file at the Mairie for us to be wed.”

“You don’t?” her brow crinkled. 

He shook his head. 

“No one bothered to produce a birth certificate for me, because they were hoping I wouldn’t last long, and after that- well, I don’t have any sort of paperwork at all, no form of identification. The officials at the Mairie most definitely will not approve a marriage license when one party cannot even offer a real last name, and I highly doubt a priest would bless such a union, either.”

She was quiet a long moment, her expression sad. What must it be like to grow up knowing that everyone regretted you?

“This doesn’t change anything, not really,” she finally said. “I love you, Erik, and you love me - marriages aren’t about pieces of paper or if a priest says you’re allowed to be together. It’s a vow between two people and God, and if God can see us even here in this room, and you vow to love me forever, and I vow to love you forever, then that’s just as real and binding as any marriage performed in a church and registered at the Mairie. We can get married _right now_, Erik.”

Erik was quiet. He was fairly certain she was wrong about this. A marriage _did_ have to be on a piece of paper because it had legal benefits - it would make it immeasurably easier for her to inherit his money (the only reason he even had a bank account to hold it all was because he was blackmailing a bank employee, without a legal wife to leave it all to, that employee would surely end up pocketing every last franc), and it would provide assurance that she couldn’t marry anyone else. At any other time he would have considered himself the furthest thing from a religious man (though he had, on more recent occasions, found himself sending up a word of gratitude for Christine’s presence in his life to any listening Someone who might be there), but he knew that Christine was religious, and he was extremely hesitant to cause her to do anything that she might view as a sin. 

“If you want to, that is,” she added in a small voice. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Was she pushing him too much? She wanted so badly to marry him, but she didn’t want to push him into something he wasn’t comfortable with. 

Erik suddenly looked at her, tearing his eyes away from the place on the wall he had been staring at while lost in thought. Was his hesitation making her think he didn’t want her? Never!

“Oh, sweet-“ he cupped her cheek. “You have no idea how much I want this - how many sleepless nights, Christine, I’ve spent dreaming that something like this could ever come close to actually happening - how could I ever not want this? I’ve wanted this for _years_, and to finally have this come true-“

She smiled and leaned in to his touch. 

“I wanted to tell you so many times,” she revealed. “These last two weeks. It was so difficult! But this, right now - this is perfect. I love you so much.”

“Did you really?”

She nodded. 

“I was so mad when the Daroga showed up - I was going to tell you then!”

He chuckled. 

“And then that night-“ she frowned a little at the memory. “And then with the boat... When we were on the couch.”

He hugged her a little tighter. 

“And I had wanted to tell you even before then, but it never seemed like a romantic moment. It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time, Erik,” she murmured. “_Months_.”

“How many months?” he dared to ask. 

She buried her face in his chest, embarrassed and shy. 

“Hm. A lot. I’ve- I’ve had a little crush on you for a few years, I think.”

His mouth quirked into a surprised smile, his eyebrows raising. To think that all this time - all those nights at his house! - she had had a crush on him that entire time! He could scarcely believe it! 

“_Oh?_” he teased her, his fingertips tracing patterns over her back and shoulders. 

“Mm hm,” she nodded, finally daring to glance up at him. “But it was only recently that I realized I loved you, too.”

She paused, then clarified. 

“Well, I think I knew I loved you, but it was only recently that I could admit I was _in_ love with you.”

His smile fell just a little at the word _admit_, and she noticed. 

“Why didn’t you want to admit it?” he asked in a shaky whisper. 

_Admitting_ reminded him of bad childhood memories - Sasha had broken a vase, once, and his mother had been furious with his explanation that it had been an accident, refusing to give him any food or water until he _admitted_ that he had knocked it over on purpose, that he had destroyed it because she had loved it and it was beautiful, and he destroyed everything that was lovely, didn’t he? Admitting was for bad things, shameful, wicked things, things he thought were lies but had to be true, because why else would his mother scream at him like that? 

“Because it’s scary, isn’t it?” she squeezed her hands on his arms. “To feel something so strongly for someone. Especially when you’ve never felt that way before.”

She leaned up and nuzzled her nose against his own. 

“But I’m not afraid anymore,” she told him, her voice lowered. “I’ve made my choice. And we are engaged now.”

He swallowed hard. 

“And we could be married now...” he said slowly. 

Her eyes sparkled. 

“Yes,” she smiled. 

“Christine Daaé, my wife,” he murmured. 

“Christine Travers,” she corrected him mirthfully. 

He scoffed and raised an eyebrow. 

“You really want to take my fake surname as your own?”

“I want everything about you,” she told him, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of crimson. 

“_Everything_?” he nearly purred, pulling her back closer into his lap until she was almost laying down and let a hand trail up her thigh in way that her squirm and squeak. 

She nodded eagerly. 

He sat her upright again, and she was almost disappointed his hand hadn’t continued its path. 

She cleared her throat and sat up straight, gathering her thoughts. 

“Do- do you want to- right now? G-get married?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

She took a deep breath, trying to remember the correct words. 

“I, Christine Daaé, take you, Erik Travers, to be my husband from this day forward, in good times and bad, to love and cherish, and I promise to be faithful to you until- until-“

_until death parts us_

Her brow knit. She couldn’t say that to him. Who knew how close that was? 

“Until the end of time,” she finally said. 

Erik could scarcely find enough breath to form his words. _This was really happening_.

“I, Erik Travers, take you, Christine Daaé,” his voice wavered. “To be my- my wife from this day forward... To love and to cherish through the good days and the bad days... Until death parts us, I vow to be faithful to you, Christine.”

His shaking hands had come up to cradle her face, and she could see the tears forming in his eyes. She leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips - their first kiss as husband and wife. 

“Oh, Christine!” he buried his face in her neck, crying quietly. “My wife...”

“Your wife,” she agreed as she hugged him tightly. 

Christine Daaé, his wife - not a dream or a wish, but reality, a real, flesh and blood, living wife. He felt he could die from the love of her, but he _couldn’t_ die, not now, not if Christine wished him to live. He would be a dog at her feet the rest of his days - anything she wished of him, he would do it. Anything. For her. 

He pulled back a little and stared into her eyes, petting her hair. She placed one of her hands on the good side of his face, wiping away the tears there, and she smiled up at him, a smile that grew steadily wider. 

Hadn’t this been the moment she’d been longing for all those nights underground? The sheer joy of sitting there on his lap while he held her was worth far more than the price of all those awkward moments of uncertainty, all of those burning blushes as she tried to articulate her feelings, all of the false starts. She’d pay that price a thousand times over if meant she could have this, right here, right now. 

She leaned up and kissed him. 

Their future lay ahead of them, uncertain but exciting. She would cherish him and the time she spent with him, no matter how short it was - but she dearly hoped that they would have decades together. She’d hold him to his promise of seeing a doctor soon. Right after the show. 

_the show_

She still had to do the show! 

She pulled back with a squeak. 

“Erik! I have to get ready for tonight!”

“You still have plenty of time, my dear,” he leaned in and kissed her again, cutting off any reply. 

She squirmed in his grasp, trying to get a look at the clock on the wall. She did have time, she supposed, but- 

“I have to check with the costume manager,” she told him breathlessly when he finally broke the kiss. “There were some last minute alterations and she needs make certain it fits.”

He nodded. 

“I’ll be nearby,” he told her, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

She pushed down the urge to kiss him again - if she gave into that feeling, she’d never make it on stage in time, regardless of how many hours she still had left. She might never leave that couch again, when it came right down to it. 

“I’ll see you before I go on?” 

“Of course.”

“And-and I’ll see you afterwards?”

“Absolutely.”

She lowered her eyelashes and spoke softly. 

“And I’ll see you tonight?”

He was quiet a moment, uncertain as to her meaning. 

“We’ll...” she licked her dry lips, a blush creeping across her face. “I’ll stay at your house tonight, won’t I? After the show - we can- together-“

“Oh, of course... If you want to,” he tried to be nonchalant as his own face turned red. 

“Oh, I want to,” she answered quickly - maybe a little too quickly, and it made her blush all the more. 

She reluctantly removed herself from his lap and from his arms, straightening out her skirts. 

He stood as well, looking slightly disappointed that she had to go. 

“I’ll see you in a little bit,” she said, gazing up at him. 

He nodded reluctantly. 

“You’re my husband now, Erik,” she assured him, reaching out and squeezing his arm. “And nothing - no one - can change that.”

He walked her to the door of her dressing room, even though it was only a few steps away. They parted with a few more words of sweetness, both blissfully unaware of the argument taking place at the de Chagny mansion at that very moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what the required documents were to get married in 1880 France (if any), but I’m hoping my readers don’t know either and they all just go along with it tbh


	19. Chapter 19

“You told her I’d _what_?” Raoul stared in horror at his brother, who fidgeted a little but stood his ground. 

“I merely suggested that the two of you would make a lovely couple, and that perhaps you be interested in courting her. She’s a Marchioness, Raoul, you really should consider.”

“I don’t want to consider,” he said stiffly. 

“Well she and her brother are coming to dinner tonight, and they’re going to be expecting you to ask,” he shrugged. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Raoul banged his fists on the table, but Philippe remained unrattled. 

“You’re seriously going to throw this all away? Wait until you meet her, at least!”

“You expect me to ask to court her after meeting her _once_?”

“Being a noble means sacrifice, Raoul,” he said, steely. “I have put in so much work to get the Marquis to view us favorably, and it has _succeeded_ \- you are faced with the opportunity to _marry up_, Raoul - do you even realize how lucky you would be? How good of an opportunity this is? How unlikely it is to come again?”

“Do you even care that I don’t want to?” he asked, tears in his eyes. 

Philippe sighed wearily, rubbing at his temples. 

“You don’t know that yet,” he insisted. “Just meet her tonight at dinner, and you can decide then.”

“I’m not going to be able to meet her. I already have plans tonight.”

“Excuse me? Doing what?”

“I am going to the opera tonight.”

“Raoul - I forbid it.”

“No. I’m going tonight. I promised.”

“Raoul, you could marry a Marchioness and yet still you insist on dallying with an opera singer. Why do you insist on being so foolhardy? This opportunity-“

“Well why don’t you marry the Marchioness, then?” he shot back. 

Philippe grit his jaw. Raoul stared at him, scowling, knowing he had hit on a sensitive nerve. 

“She is closer to your age,” he ground out. “And I think the two of you would get along better-“

“You can’t marry her because you know your heart belongs to another,” Raoul taunted. 

“Dammit, Raoul!” he snapped. “At least I have enough sense in my head to know I can’t marry a dancer!”

“You won’t marry anyone else because you love Sorelli, but you refuse to grant me the same freedom! And you have the nerve to tell _me_ that having a title comes with sacrifice?”

“The de Chagny name dies with us, Raoul, if we don’t do something to change that. Is that what you want? Our proud family erased from history?”

“Then marry Sorelli,” he he frowned, then added in a softer tone - “Or let me marry Christine.”

“You will _never_ marry Christine,” he sneered. “I will disown you before you do.”

Raoul shifted nervously. He hated fighting with his brother, but lately it seemed that was all they did. He tried to placate him. 

“I’ll meet the Marchioness, but not tonight. I need to speak with Christine first.”

“No, because I know you - you’re going to do something foolish like propose tonight.”

“No! I just- I just need to talk to her. To discuss that I might be... Courting someone.”

“A likely story,” he chuckled. “I don’t believe you.”

Raoul flushed. He hadn’t been set on proposing, he really did want to just discuss the possibilities of their futures - was she still seeing her tutor? Was she okay with him becoming involved with the Marchioness? Or, perhaps, would she want something with him instead?

“Please, brother,” he asked softly. “I just want to see her, and I promise I’ll consider the Marchioness.”

Philippe opened his mouth to reply, but a servant appeared at the door and cleared his throat. 

“Sir,” the servant said. “I hate to intrude but there is a matter that needs your approval.”

Raoul took his opportunity to slip away to his room upstairs while Philippe was distracted with the matter the servant had brought up. By the time Philippe had finished telling the young man that they could serve fish instead of steak that evening if the cuts from the butcher were not up to par for such distinguished guests, Raoul was long gone. 

Philippe, finding himself alone in the room, ran a hand through his hair and huffed. This hadn’t been how he had wanted to spend the day. Why couldn’t Raoul just do this for him? Didn’t he see how hard he worked to ensure their lives were good? Why couldn’t he just stay for the blasted dinner? Leave it to Raoul to make out like he was being tortured by the opportunity to marry up. If only the willful boy would just do as he was asked just _once_. It exasperated him to no end. It was, by far, much too reminiscent of the lack of respect he had received as a teen - his young age meant more to the other nobles than his title of Comte, and he had always felt held to higher standard because of it. It was difficult to lose one’s father, it was difficult to be in charge of a household, it was difficult to be judged at every turn - and it was even worse for all three to happen at the same time. He had worked so hard to make certain the de Chagny name was not tarnished, and that foolish boy cared nothing for it. 

The truth of the matter was Philippe had been on edge ever since he had seen the ring box in Raoul’s room. It had started a week ago as a simple wish to feel closer to his little brother - he missed him, when he was away - and he had gone in his bedchamber just to look around. The little artifacts that populated the room always made him think of Raoul and smile. But there on the shelf between a fossilized fish and a piece of driftwood had been a little box. It contained a ring inside, a ring that could only be for one woman. It had struck him to the core. 

That same anxiety had come bubbling up yet again in their conversation. Of course he didn’t truly expect Raoul to propose marriage to the Marchioness, but he could at least meet her. Ah, but he knew why Raoul wasn’t interested in even meeting her - he had plans to wed Christine. The ring was proof of that, was it not?

At the Opera Populaire, Christine looked at herself in the full-length mirror, the one that hid Erik’s tunnel. 

The dress had been specially made for her and fit like a glove, but as she looked at her reflection, all she could see was a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. 

She had found a box, once, when she was a child. A box of fancy scarves and lovely shoes and a hat unlike one she’d ever seen before. She’d tried them all on, only for her father to come into the room and see her wearing them. He’d stared for a moment before he had to turn away to hide the tears in his eyes. 

Now Christine was the one who wanted to cry. 

This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? 

But it didn’t feel real. 

She wasn’t _really_ a prima donna - and after tonight, everyone else would know that too. 

She turned away from her reflection, hand on her throat. If she started crying, she’d harm her voice, but still her eyes watered. 

She’d often been plagued by bouts of feeling like she didn’t belong - like she was merely pretending at being a singer, like everyone else held something that she didn’t, like she was only on the outskirts watching the _real_ performers of the Populaire. Those little fits of melancholy usually passed quickly, more so when she tried to not dwell on them. But this - this was like being hit with an enormous wave of the feeling, and she didn’t think she’d be able to bring her head above the water of it again. 

“Christine,” Erik’s voice was behind her. 

Her eyes flew open. She hadn’t even heard him enter, but she turned to him, looked up at him with her teary eyes. 

“Sweet, what’s wrong?”

“Erik, I don’t think I can do this,” her voice trembled. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I can’t- I’m not-“ she took a deep breath. “I’m not ready.”

“Of course you’re ready, Christine,” he frowned. “You know that role as well as Carlotta does.”

He reminded her of her father on that day she had unwittingly dressed herself in her mother’s clothing, telling her how lovely and grown up she looked in such finery, how like a lady! But she hadn’t been a lady, she had been a little girl in shoes far too big for her tiny feet, with gloves that had hung limply from her hands and a hat that nearly eclipsed her face. 

“No, Erik!” she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “You don’t understand!”

How could she make him understand it when she herself did not?

He wrapped her into his embrace and held her. 

“What don’t I understand, love? Tell me so I can understand,” he whispered tenderly. 

She leaned into her husband, simply resting there for a moment. 

“I can’t do this,” she repeated. “They all want a prima donna, they all want this amazing soprano - but I’m only me. I’m going to disappoint everyone.”

“How could you ever disappoint anyone, sweet? You’re a wonderful singer.”

She moaned. 

He released his hold on her to move behind her before pulled her flush against his frame. With him no longer in front of her, she could see the both of them reflected in the long mirror. 

One arm wrapped around her waist and the other across her chest, he murmured into her ear, “Do you trust me, Christine?”

She could only nod, her gaze fixed on the mirror. 

“Do you trust me when I tell you that the quality of your voice far exceeds that of Carlotta?”

She bit her lip, nodding. 

“Do you trust me when I say that you’re fully capable of singing every line of your role without any errors?”

She was still. 

“For so long, you know, you have been my only voice to the outside world - when you sing, Christine, they aren’t just hearing _you_, they’re hearing me, too,” he nuzzled the false nose of his mask into her hair as he spoke. “Christine, do you think I would send you out on stage if I thought you would embarrass yourself? If I thought your performance would reflect badly on me? If I thought you weren’t good enough?”

She shook her head, and he smiled a little. 

If he pressed his face towards her just so, he could barely see any of his mask reflected in the mirror at all. It was an odd image to see, what he might have looked like had he been a normal man standing there with his wife in his arms. 

She flinched almost imperceptibly as the hard edge of the mask pressed too hard into her skin. 

He realised his mistake and moved a little behind her, switching sides so that his smooth cheek rested against her own. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see his mask in the mirror. She seemed to like this position much better, leaning back against him more, her hands coming up to rest on his arms. 

“I won’t force your hand, Christine,” he whispered, and she shivered at the feeling of his breath on her neck. “It’s up to you and you alone if you go onstage tonight. But I want you to imagine something for me, can you do that?”

He felt her nod against him. 

“I want you to picture yourself in the future, Christine. You’re an old woman, quite old, and you’re looking back on your life. You think of tonight, of us standing right here, and of what happens after. Do you regret not going on stage? Do you regret walking away, of not having went for it? Do you wish you could have tried? Do you think you’ll always wonder about what might have happened if you went onstage tonight?”

Her brow furrowed. 

“If you choose it, Christine, if you choose right now to walk away from the stage and the Populaire and all of it, I will support you in that choice. But are you walking away because you truly don’t want to be prima donna, because your goals have changed - or are you walking away because you’re afraid of finally achieving what you’ve been working so hard for?”

Her eyes were locked on their own reflection. 

“What if I don’t achieve it,” she breathed. “What if?”

She swallowed hard and spoke more audibly. 

“Erik, what if I go out there and it goes horribly? What if I get cut from being an understudy? What if no one likes my singing?”

“What if it goes so well they cut Carlotta instead?”

She smiled for a brief second. 

“You still want it, don’t you?” He murmured. “Even though it frightens you... You want it.”

She gave a little nod. 

“Then let me tell you how tonight is going to go, Christine. You are going to go on stage, even though you are scared, and you are going to look up at Box Five and know that I am there, watching you, and you are going to sing - you will sing only for me. I want to be the only thing inside of your mind, Christine. No one else matters. Their opinions, their judgements, their stares, their expectations - none of that exists. Just you, and just me. How does that sound?” he turned her around and wiped his thumbs across her cheeks until her face was dry. 

“That sounds okay,” she said in a small voice.

“Besides,” he mused as he studied her face which he still held between his hands. “If you start embarrassing yourself out there, I’ll drop the chandelier to create a distraction, then I’ll whisk you offstage through a trapdoor.”

She burst into laughter. 

“Erik!”

He smiled a little before he leaned down and pressed a long kiss to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered shut. 

“You’re going to be wonderful, sweet,” he whispered. “I have no doubt about that.”

She looked up at him with love. 

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. 

He nodded and let hands drop from her face, coming to rest on her waist instead. 

“Are you feeling any better about it?”

“Yes, I think so,” she tried to steady her breath. 

“Good, good,” he nodded. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about tonight. Everything will go just fine, I’m certain of it.”

“How lucky I am to have you here, Erik.”

“I am the lucky one, I believe,” he murmured, then paused. 

His hands tightened their grip on her hips. 

“Your, ah, your costume is quite lovely, my dear,” he licked his dry lips. 

With the advantage of his extra height, the already low cut neckline appeared even lower. His eyes flicked between her and the wall, not wanting to stare openly, but unwilling to not take just a look - they were married, surely it was okay to _look_. 

A wobbly smile bloomed on her face as her cheeks turned pink. She raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s a shame, then, that the costume department will be wanting this back after the show ends tonight... I won’t-“ she looked away a moment, her face turning pinker and her voice lowering. “I won’t be able to wear it for you tonight... Later tonight, I mean. But I’m sure I have something else to wear that will be special, too... It’s a very special night, after all.”

“I’m- I’m sure you’ll find something very agreeable, Christine,” he said, his throat dry as she pressed just a little closer to him. 

“Oh Erik,” she whispered. “I can scarcely wait.”

Was that so? They need not wait! His eyes darted around the room, finding any number of surfaces that could prove useful - the divan, the vanity table, the wall, the floor... 

They had time before the curtain call! And she really did look so lovely in her costume... He swallowed hard and bit back the urge to offer her the choice of where in her dressing room she would prefer. She deserved better than to be taken on the floor like an animal (tempting though it was), especially if it was her first time. 

The thought wouldn’t leave him alone, however, and he realized that he should leave for Box Five before he engaged in a course of action that would cause her to be late for her first performance. 

“Is there anything else you need before the performance, my dear? Anything you want to go over, or do you feel ready now?”

“I think I’m ready,” she said quietly. “Well, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

He tilted her chin up and kissed along her jaw before placing one last tender kiss to her lips. 

“Enjoy your time on stage, Christine. You’ve worked so hard for this, regardless of what comes after,” he murmured, then lowered his voice. “And I’ll see you after the show, sweet girl.”

She nodded as he patted her cheek one last time before turning and vanishing behind her mirror. She took a deep, steadying breath after he left and began to apply her makeup. 

The de Chagny mansion was quiet. Raoul tried to creep down the stairs as softly as he could, but Philippe was waiting for him around the corner. 

“You should start getting ready for dinner,” his voice held a slight chill that didn’t sit well with Raoul. 

He looked down at his feet, not sure of what to say that hadn’t already been said. 

“I just want to see her,” he finally said quietly. “I haven’t seen her in so long - I miss her.”

“You’re seriously going to ruin all of my hard work in setting this up tonight? Just- just toss it all aside? If you go see her tonight, you’re going to ruin _everything_, Raoul.”

“I’m sure the Marchioness will understand... Just say I wasn’t feeling well this evening,” he offered hopefully. 

Philippe pointed a finger at him. 

“If you go to the opera tonight, Raoul, do not bother coming back.”

A cold chill ran down Raoul’s back.

“What?” 

“If you go to the opera you’re going to propose to that little tart, I know it,” he hissed. “Don’t bother coming back, in that case.”

“Don’t you call her that!” he shouted, his eyes watering again. “Don’t you ever call her that again! I will not have you speak about her like that!”

“You presume to order _me_ in my own house? You insolent boy!” he sputtered. 

“She’s not a tart!” he wiped at his eyes. “Take that back!”

Philippe pressed his lips together in a straight line. 

“I will take it back,” he said slowly. “If you do not go to the opera tonight.”

Raoul was quiet a long moment. He took a deep breath. 

“You don’t understand, Philippe - she’s the understudy for the prima donna, and tonight - opening night! - she’s playing the lead role. Please, I want to see her on stage tonight, I want to hear her sing as the prima donna. I promise I won’t ask to marry her, I just want to see her perform, and to say hello to her afterwards. Please?”

Philippe nearly reconsidered, his anger beginning to ebb, but his stubbornness was as strong as ever. 

“No,” he said at last. “You’re going to stay here, and we’re going to have dinner with the Marquis, and you’re going to talk to the Marchioness instead.”

“But Philippe-“

“It is time you _grow up_, Raoul. No more games of make believe with the singer.”

“I’m seeing Christine tonight,” his voice wavered, but his resolution was firm. “I am sorry, but dinner will have to wait until another night.”

Philippe felt the last of his control over himself slipping away, and it terrified him. 

“There will not be another night, Raoul!” he exploded. “If you walk out that door, I will disown you!”

“For what? For going to an opera?”

“For disobeying me!”

Raoul’s panic, which had been steadily growing, reached its height. He did the only thing that came to mind in that moment. He turned and ran for the front door. 

“Get back here!” Phillipe shouted after him, springing up to follow him. 

He reached the front door in time to see Raoul running down the pathway to the stable, probably intent on getting a carriage to go to the Populaire. 

“I hereby strip you of your title!” he screamed after him. “You are no longer a de Chagny! You are no longer a Vicomte! And you are no longer my brother!”

Raoul kept on his course, growing smaller and smaller in the distance until he disappeared. Philippe placed a trembling hand over his mouth. What had he just said? 

Good Heavens - _what had he just said_? 

He wanted nothing more than to take it all back - all of it, every last word. His brother was leaving him, and why? Because he hadn’t the patience to humor him just a little while longer? He wanted to retch. What had he done? 

He sagged against the wall, stark realization setting in. He had accused Raoul of destroying the de Chagny family, but the only one doing that was himself. He had to fix this, somehow. He had to try. 

He stumbled up to his feet once more and ran off to the stables, hoping to catch up to him, but running had never been his strong suit, and by the time he reached the stables, out of breath and a pain in his side, Raoul and the carriage were long gone. 

Erik settled himself in Box Five, running an absentminded finger over his lips. He could still feel the way Christine’s lips had pressed against his. He could scarcely believe it was really happening. She loved him. His mind wanted to rebel against the very thought, finding it far too outlandish to even be within the realm of possibility, but - it appeared, at least for the moment, to be true. He didn’t understand it at all. What on earth had possessed her and caused her to choose him over the boy? 

And she had said she was looking forward to the evening, to spending it with Erik as her husband! His mind was swimming at the very idea. To think, him - _married_, and to the prima donna of the Opera Populaire! It was too good be true, yet seemed to be true all the same. He had never had very many good things happen to him in his life, and this was by far the best. He felt a slight sense of unease, as though the scales of the universe had tipped just a little too far in his favor to not be noticed by some cosmic judge and corrected somehow... But he would worry about that later. Good things always had to be paid for, didn’t they? Every time something good had ever happened to him, it was always tempered with something bad. But for now - for now he was happy, regardless of what was coming down the road. His student was minutes away from achieving her lifelong dream. He was about to hear the most precious voice cast in the role of leading lady. He was married, in a sense. He was happy, for now. At that moment, now was all that mattered.


	20. Chapter 20

Raoul stared out the little window of the carriage as it moved away from the de Chagny mansion and towards the opera house, trying to blink away the stinging in his eyes. He had run out of the house pretty fast, but he had still heard the words his brother had screamed at him. 

_no longer my brother_

It had finally happened, just as he feared. But how was he supposed to give Christine up? They weren’t even courting, so it wasn’t as though he was doing anything he could publicly break off to save the family name from getting tarnished. Was he not allowed to have a friend? Was he not allowed a- a mistress? He frowned. Christine wasn’t his mistress - he would never put her in that position, just as Philippe would never do that Sorell - there was only one woman for each of them in this life, and neither one would marry another, it seemed. But still - he was not doing anything with Christine that Philippe was not doing with Sorelli... In fact, they were very pointedly doing _less_ than Philippe and Sorelli. Although, he supposed, Philippe and Sorelli kept their affair behind closed doors, and Raoul and Christine never cared who might see them as they walked along the river or sat in a cafe. 

He sniffled. Well, there was nothing standing in his way now, he supposed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box, fiddling with it. He had refrained from asking her before because he thought perhaps there was something more between her and her tutor, but it had been months since he saw them together at the dance, and hadn’t she promised to tell him if she ever become serious about someone else? She hadn’t mentioned the man even once after all this time. Perhaps he still stood a chance after all.

He arrived at the opera house and made his way to the audience, taking his seat near the front. Just for now he would choose to forget his myriad troubles and simply enjoy Christine’s big day. The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began to hum. 

Christine could feel her heart flutter as she stood behind the curtain in the darkness. A bead of sweat rolled down her brow, and her mind was racing. She would be singing the entire prologue all by herself on stage, surrounded by scenery but no other singers or even actors. Every eye in the building would be on her and her alone. It thrilled and terrified her. 

She nearly flinched at the sound of the curtain pulling back, and she blinked quickly as she was nearly blinded by the spotlights on her (had they always been this bright?). The orchestra plunged ahead into those familiar notes. 

In that moment, she did what she had always been so very careful to avoid. She let her eyes focus on Box Five. It was dark, as it always was, but that was no matter. She knew he was there, watching. The rest of the opera house and entire rest of the world faded into nothing. It was just the stage and Box Five. Just her, and her tutor-turned-husband. There was music, of course, but where it was coming from didn’t matter. Wasn’t there always music when she was with Erik? 

Erik sat with bated breath. Christine looked so very small on stage, so very young. He had a fleeting fear that perhaps his love for her had blinded him to the truth, that maybe she really wasn’t really ready for this after all, but he knew that was ridiculous, and just how ridiculous it was became confirmed as soon as she opened her mouth. 

She recognized her cue to begin singing, and her voice came out as clear and as sweet as a nightingale. 

Erik exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. She was perfection. How could she not be? He felt his own mouth curve into a smile as he watched her, at how she stared up at him and how the corners of her lips tugged upwards as though there were a secret that only the two of them knew about. 

Nadir was struck at the beauty of her performance as he sat in the audience. She truly was a sight to see and a marvel to hear. He had always considered the Shah’s palace as Erik’s greatest achievement, perhaps equaled only by the Populaire itself, but as he heard Christine sing he realized that _she_ was the greatest thing Erik had ever done. The young woman herself obviously had a great deal to do with her own success as well, but whatever Erik had added or coaxed out of her - it was truly breathtaking. The combination of the two of them working so hard had paid off spectacularly. He noticed where her gaze was aimed, and he smiled. He wished the both of them only happiness, and they had seemingly found it in each other. 

Raoul felt the itching tracks of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks while he listened to her sing, but he was too entranced to wipe them away. Listening to Christine Daaé sing was like hearing an angel. He knew, in that moment, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was irrevocably in love with her. He had to see her as soon as possible, as soon as she was off the stage, and he would ask for her hand in marriage. It was all he could do to not spring up and lay his heart at her feet at that very moment. It didn’t matter what the future held for him, as long as she was there. 

Christine inhaled and prepared to hold the final note of her song, a feeling of almost disbelief welling up inside of her. The music crescendoed, her song ended, and the lights went out as the scene movers began pulling certain pieces back and rolling new ones into place. 

The crowd, which had been completely silent - no coughing, no whispering, no candy wrappers rustling - erupted into applause. Erik felt he could weep. The thought that he had played some part, however small, in all of this was overwhelming. There was no denying it tonight - Christine Daaé was the true Angel of Music. 

She stayed perfectly still for a moment, taking how loudly the crowd was suddenly clapping. Her hand fluttered to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. She felt electricity in her very veins and every part of her was humming with the gravity of this monumental occasion. 

_She had done it._

And they loved her! She hadn’t messed anything up, she hadn’t disappointed anyone! 

A grin broke out on her face. She wanted nothing more than to run to Erik and throw her arms around his neck, thanking him for everything. But - she had the rest of the show to finish first. She scurried to her next position on stage, mentally preparing for what came next. A feeling of absolute joy bubbled up in her, and she couldn’t contain it. It had ceased to be a nerve wracking job, and instead became like play to her. 

_Christine Daaé, prima donna_

The lights went up again, and she schooled her face into something more befitting the scene than her huge smile. The music carried them into the story, and Christine felt her own worries and thoughts fade away as she became lost in the character entirely. 

She moved through the first act as though in a dream, a wonderful dream that the audience was sharing with her. It wasn’t until the final song before intermission that the spell was broken - a stage hand got confused and wheeled the wrong prop out, which made her pause and, in turn, nearly miss her next cue. A brief moment of panic flooded her, but she picked up and carried on. No one in the audience seemed to notice, but it still shook her just a little. This was no enchanted evening - anything could go wrong, really. Something nearly had gone wrong. She knew she had to do her best to keep her focus. 

Erik was enraptured throughout it all, right up until the scene where the prima donna had to kiss the primo uomo - that was, Piangi. He knew the scene was there, of course, but that didn’t stop him from finding it distasteful. He wrinkled what little nose he had at the sight. It was only a stage kiss, but it still ate at him. The only consolation he received was knowing that Piangi didn’t enjoy it either and that Carlotta most certainly did not enjoy the thought of Christine kissing (stage kiss or no) her lover. If the two had to kiss, at least everyone involved (directly or indirectly) was not pleased over it. 

The first act ended, and she quickly went to her dressing room to change her makeup and dress. 

She had finished with the latter and was nearly through with the former when there came a knock on her door. 

It was Raoul. He had sprung up from his seat and headed straight to her dressing room, intent on seeing her during the intermission. 

Erik, too, was heading for her dressing room, a sudden whim bringing the urge to see her, to congratulate her. He hesitated a moment in Box Five, trying to decide what route to take, but he eventually decided on trying the actual halls and corridors rather than the secret tunnels in the walls - he would risk being stared at, of course, and it would certainly take longer to get there (even longer since he had to be careful not to exert himself), but it certainly seemed the safer choice. He didn’t want to picture the confusion on poor Christine’s face if he simply expired somewhere in the walls, disappeared with a trace, without a note. If something were to happen on the way there and he was in the hallway, at best someone might help him, and at worst- well, at least Christine would know what had become of him. 

But it was Raoul, young, healthy Raoul who had no problem sprinting down the hallway that arrived at her door first. 

She opened the door a crack to see who it was, then opened it widely. 

“Raoul! You came!” her smile quickly faded. “Oh, we need to talk-“

She ushered him him into her room. 

“You were amazing, Lotte, and yes, we do need to talk,” he took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “There is something very vital I must ask of you.”

She fidgeted nervously. 

“Raoul, I really think I should go first-“

“If I don’t say this quickly, I may never get the courage to say it again-“ he went on. 

“Things have _changed_, Raoul-“ she warned, but he forged ahead. 

“Christine, I love you, and I- I wish to ask for your hand in marriage-“ he fished the ring out of his pocket and opened the box, holding it out to her as he got down on one knee. 

She put her hands over her mouth in horror at the scene that was unfolding before her, tears welling in her eyes. _No_! 

“We can have a spring wedding, when the trees in front of the church are in bloom,” he said hopefully. “It’ll be like a dream, don’t you think?”

“_Oh, Raoul_,” she couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. _Why hadn’t he let her speak first?_ This was going to make everything so much harder!

“Philippe-“ he paused, not wanting to burden her with the truth of what had happened at the mansion. He swallowed hard. 

“Philippe isn’t standing in the way anymore,” he added softly. “So I am free to say what’s been on my heart for so very long. I love you so much Christine, and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with you.”

She had to turn away from him as she sobbed into her hands. 

His expression turned worried and he scrambled up to his feet. 

“Christine, what’s-“

“Raoul,” she met his eye, her own filled with sorrow. “I cannot marry you, for _I am already married_.”

“Already married...”  
he parroted back, disbelieving. 

Every hope, every dream he had constructed around the two of them being together came crashing down around him. Christine could see the light dying in his eyes. She nodded, trying to bite back a fresh flood of tears. 

“It was very sudden,” she told him, her voice thick. “I wanted to tell you in person, and you wouldn’t have received my letter in the mountains anyway. It was going to be the very first thing I told you... Please understand, it wasn’t something I was keeping from you - he and I were not courting, and we were not engaged for long, either, and it all happened so quickly-“

She bit her lip. She and Erik had only been engaged for less than an hour before they had married. 

He knew it didn’t really make a difference, but he had to ask. 

“To who?”

“To Erik,” she replied, sniffling. “My tutor.”

He nodded absentmindedly. The man he had seen her with so long ago. 

“So you’re happy, then.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway.

“Yes,” a hint of a smile peeked through her tears. 

“Good,” he breathed. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Oh, Raoul - I’m so sorry.”

“No, no - _I’m_ sorry. I’ve- I’ve made a right fool of myself,” he tried to chuckle but it sound more like a sob. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she shook her head, and reached out to hug him. “Don’t be sorry.”

He hugged her tightly, but quickly pulled away, all too aware now that he was hugging someone else’s wife. 

He managed something akin to a smile, his hands trembling as he shoved the ring box back in his pocket, cursing the day he had bought it, cursing every day of his naive and innocent existence. 

“Congratulations, then, on your wedding,” his voice wavered but the feeling behind it was sincere. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together. I wish you all the happiness in the world - you so deserve it.”

She felt she might break under the tenderness of his gaze. 

“Thank you,” her voice trembled. 

“And congratulations on your singing - you’re the best soprano I’ve ever heard. You’ll unseat La Carlotta after this, I’m certain.”

She smiled just a little. 

“You’re so sweet, Raoul. I love that about you.”

He nodded and looked at the floor. 

“I’ll let you finish getting ready, then.”

He turned and left, closing the door behind him. 

She pressed her hands over her eyes, biting her lip. She should have offered her continued friendship to him - but surely he already knew that, didn’t he? They would still talk again later, surely...? 

She wiped a towel across her cheeks, needing to redo her makeup. She had to focus so she could get through the rest of the show, even though her heart was currently shattered. She might not desire Raoul as a husband, but he was very dear to her all the same. She really did wish that she had been able to break the news before he had actually proposed. 

Erik tried to steady his breathing and keep his heart rate under control as he neared the hallway for her dressing room. Being around all these people milling about was nerve wracking, though only a few did a double take or stared. Between trying to pace himself and trying to not panic at their proximity, it was slow going. He’d only have a few minutes with Christine, he knew, as she’d likely have to leave soon to make her way backstage again, but even still a few minutes was better than none, and he was almost there anyway. 

He felt a stab of jealousy as he saw Raoul leaving her dressing room. Why was he there? What use did she have for the boy now that she had a husband? He nearly considered telling her that he didn’t want her speaking to the boy anymore now that she was married, but he knew she wouldn’t take that well, so he tried to reassure his own anxious mind. 

Could he blame the boy, really? If he were in Raoul’s place, wouldn’t he do the same? Hadn’t he ardently hoped to remain in contact with her, to remain friends with her, even after she had married the vicomte? Perhaps he should allow the boy this. He certainly should allow Christine to have friends, and she and the boy had been friends since childhood. It would surely be difficult for her to simply abandon that connection. 

Besides, he was probably only there to congratulate her on finally achieving her dream. There was surely nothing unsavory about it... She loved her husband... Didn’t she? 

The boy went swiftly down the hall, almost out of sight by the time Erik had reached her door. He knocked. 

“Come in,” she called from her vanity, thinking Raoul had found something else he wanted to say. 

Erik entered quickly, the door closing with a soft click. 

His smile upon seeing her vanished when he saw the look on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” he nearly demanded. “What’s happened?”

She looked up at him in the mirror, the dark makeup she had so carefully applied to the edges of her eyes running down her cheeks. 

“Raoul proposed to me,” she said, anguished. 

Erik was at a loss for words. At first he felt a wave of anger - that insolent boy! Proposing to a married woman! But then suddenly came uncertainty. What if Christine had changed her mind? 

His worst fears seemed realized at her next words. 

“He said Philippe approved,” she sniffled and tried to reapply her face powder after wiping off the smeared eyeliner. “Raoul said we could have a spring wedding.”

“Well... What did you tell him?” Erik finally remembered how to speak, but his tongue felt slow and strange. 

Christine opened her mouth to reply, but there came a quick knock at the door. 

“Five minutes, Mlle Daaé,” the stage hand called out. 

Five minutes! She’d need those minutes to get to the stage and in her proper place! She had to leave _now_!

She furiously attacked her face with brushes and powder, blinking against the tears that still threatened. There were a thousand thoughts in her head all at once, each one competing to be the thing she said first, each one louder than the last, and she could feel the very pounding of them all in her temples. 

_Of course_ she turned Raoul down, how could Erik even think otherwise? She was _married_! What kind of question was that? A vague annoyance rose up in her - she loved them both, but goodness, did they really have to bring their drama with them to her dressing room door while she was trying to prepare for the second act? Could Raoul not have just waited until the show was over? Could Erik not just give her a hug and a kiss and tell her he was sorry that she had to hurt Raoul, that he understood it was difficult for her right now, instead of practically demanding a retelling of everything they had said? She had to finish getting ready for the rest of the opera! 

“I have to finish getting ready,” her voice bordered on pouting, and her mind only half registered that _these_ were the words she spoke aloud, and not some sort of reassurance to her perpetually doubting husband. 

She jabbed the powder brush over her cheeks one last time before letting the brush fall to the table, her mind too consumed with worries over being late to the stage to even begin to think on the real reason Erik was asking her what she had told Raoul. 

“Christine, what-“

“_Please_, Erik - we’ll talk about this later. I can’t do this right now!” 

She ran out of the room, skirts in hand so she wouldn’t trip on them. 

Erik stared at the door long after she had left, his brow knitted and his heart breaking. 

“But what did you tell him...” he whispered the question to the empty room. 

Had she agreed to marry Raoul, after all? 

_We’ll talk later_

He ran his fingers through the hair of his wig, his entire world crashing down around him, his every attempt to calm and reassure himself coming up empty. 

_We’ll talk later_

What was there to talk about? Or rather - what _else_ could there be to talk about? They weren’t really married, after all.

What was their supposed marriage, anyway? A handful of words whispered to each other? A promise no one else even knew about? Even Romeo and Juliet had more than that. They hadn’t even consummated the marriage. There was nothing to hold her to her vow, nothing to keep her from being given to another. Their was an illegitimate union. They weren’t married. 

He placed a hand on his throat. He surely thought he would scream if not for the choking sensation there. 

He could hear the music of the second act going on, could hear his wife - no, not his wife, not anymore, apparently - could hear Christine singing. He felt dizzy. Rational thought was nowhere to be found. 

In a mere hour and twenty minutes, Christine would take her bow and come back to her dressing room and sit him down and explain that when she had proposed to him, she had thought that the boy’s brother would never approve of her marrying the boy, that things had changed now. 

Was else was she crying? Because she had foolishly bound herself to a monster, that’s why. Because she had been hasty in her choices, and now something - someone - better had come along and she didn’t know how to get herself out of her sham marriage to a hideous beast. 

He took a tremulous breath, his fists clenching. 

She wouldn’t have to worry, anymore. He would do it for her. 

He searched in her vanity drawer for a scrap of paper and a pen, scrawling her a note before he turned on his heel and left. 

Christine blinked hard as she took her place behind the curtain. She simplify couldn’t begin crying again - that would spoil everything. She had two men in her life that she loved dearly, and they would make it all work eventually. Right now she needed to focus on her performance. She took a deep breath, and, as the curtain went up once more, she resolved to use her emotions to further her performance, to transmute them into fuel for her songs instead of letting them smother and stifle her under the weight of them. Raoul would get past this, she would get past this - they would all get past this eventually but first she needed to sing. 

He intended to leave the opera house entirely, but Christine’s voice on stage drew him back. He lingered there a while, slipping into one of the empty seats towards the back of the theater. He had helped shape her voice, had he not? Surely he could stay just a little longer to enjoy it. 

He warred with his own emotions as he sat through the rest of the second act. Half of his mind demanded to acknowledged as her husband, to insist to Christine that he was not going to let her off the hook so easily - she had _sworn_ her love to him, her very _life_ to him, and he was a jealous man. He would not release her to the Vicomte, no matter how much she wanted him to, and already he was plotting how he might spirit her away somewhere so no one would ever find them again, let alone that _boy_ and his outrageous demands. Except- 

Surely all that wasn’t really needed? Surely he was simply being dramatic again? For all he knew she had politely turned him down. Hadn’t she agreed of her own free will to be his wife? She loved him, or so she had said, once upon a time (was it really only this morning that it had all occurred?). Except- 

Hadn’t she just said this very morning that she still loved Raoul?  
And hadn’t he told her in return that he would give her up to Raoul if she asked it (oh, how he cursed himself now for saying that!)? It still didn’t make sense to him, why she had chosen him over the boy. Perhaps because it truly didn’t make sense - she could never have a church wedding with Erik, never have the kind of life a vicomte could give her. 

Erik swallowed around the lump of emotion in his throat. What would be best for Christine? That was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it?

He supposed that really only she could say what she felt was best for her, but he knew without a doubt that _he_ could never really be anyone’s best choice. He should let her decide on her own, he knew that too. When she had made her so-called choice this morning, she hadn’t known that Raoul was about to propose, and that likely changed things now. 

He would let her decide, of course, but Erik wasn’t stupid. He knew the cards were stacked against him. If it were up to him to decide, he’d send her off with the Vicomte, even though such a choice felt like it would destroy him. But didn’t he want her to be happy? She could be very happy with Raoul. 

He should be a gentleman about it. She had made clear her intent to speak to him about it after the show. He should face her and hear her verdict and defer to her. It was what she wanted. _Except-_

As the opera drew closer and closer to a close, he could feel his heart beginning to race. She only had one song left, and then the curtain call, and then she’d be going to her dressing room and expecting to speak to him (he thought briefly of the note he had left there for her - it was not too late for him to grab it out of sight before she ever knew it was there). He felt horribly uncomfortable the closer he came to having to face his fate, a cold sweat behind his mask. 

She finished her last song, the last song of the entire opera, and the crowd rushed to its feet to applaud her and the rest of the company. 

He was overcome by the image of having to look in her eyes as she explained to him that while she was very grateful to him and she did hold some sort of love for him, she would have to accept Raoul’s proposal instead. A wave of nausea hit him, and his heart did a funny flip. His hand flew to his chest and he stood quickly, fleeing the opera house. 

Christine Daaé was taking her curtain call, and a curtain had certainly closed on this chapter of his life. 

Christine closed her eyes as bowed to the audience, savoring the sound of applause. She couldn’t have been happier with how the show had gone, though intermission had been truly awful. She sighed a little as she smiled sweetly at everyone clapping for her. It was almost time to have to go and face the awful reality of what Raoul had gone through that evening. She glanced up at Box Five, a little frown passing across her face. The box was dark, as it always was, and she had no way of telling whether or not anyone was in it, just the same as always - it felt silly to even think, but she didn’t feel Erik’s eyes on her anymore. Was he still up there? Or had he already left to meet her in her dressing room? 

Raoul was still there, in the audience, clapping and smiling but crying all the same. He didn’t know where he stood with her now - he didn’t know where he stood with anybody. He wasn’t going back to Philippe, that much was certain. He refused to grovel, or worse - to admit Philippe was right. He would find some sort of path out of this, though he wasn’t certain how at the moment. 

Outside in the cold night air, Erik huffed and walked and quickly as he could, leaving everything behind him. The pain in his chest was fading, but the panic stayed firmly with him. He couldn’t face her. He couldn’t do it. Not after they had kissed, not after she had said those things to him. Even the possibility of her rejecting him after all that was simply too much to bear. It wasn’t really as though he were choosing for her, not when he was certain they were both on the same page, certain that she had already chosen this. The words he had left on her vanity rang true. It was enough of a farewell, he thought. Besides, she didn’t need him anymore. Tonight was proof enough of that. She had her Vicomte fiancé, she didn’t need her phony Angel now. Not for his singing lessons, and definitely not for his twisted feelings towards her. 

A little voice chided at him that he was overreacting, that he should stay and be certain (hadn’t she said she was looking forward to spending the night with him? It had she changed her mind about even that now that Raoul had made his intentions known?) but it was entirely drowned out by the larger voice that was screaming that he would certainly die on the spot if he had to hear her tell him that she wanted out of their imaginary marriage. No, this was for the best. This was what was best for everyone involved.


	21. Chapter 21

All of Paris was abuzz. They talked endlessly about the beautiful new young prima donna, about her gorgeous voice and excellent acting. About how admirers had flocked to her dressing room door, hoping to get a word with her. About how none did, because after she had been in her room only a few minutes, a scream was heard, a scream as though someone was about to be murdered, and she suddenly burst from her room, in full costume, tears streaming down her face as she ran through the throngs of people, pleading with them to let her through. About how she had cried out loudly, “_Please, I need to find my husband!_”. About how a young man, whom some swore was the Vicomte de Chagny, ran after her and shouted her name, though she didn’t stop for him. 

All of Paris was abuzz with questions to which there were no answers, but none of those questions buzzed as loudly as the one in Christine’s mind - _where had Erik gone?_

Christine stood on the side of the street in front of the opera house, clutching in a white-knuckled fist the note that Erik had left - _I release you to your Vicomte, Christine. Enjoy your spring wedding. You need not be worried over a Ghost haunting you._

“Christine!” Raoul finally caught up to her. 

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” she sobbed. 

“Who’s gone?” Raoul asked. 

“Erik - he left-“ she choked. “How could he do this?”

She held the note out and Raoul took it from her, reading it. 

“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, his horror mounting. “This is all my fault.”

Philippe had been right after all, though not in the way he had intended. He _had_ ruined everything by coming here tonight and talking to Christine. He squeezed the hand that wasn’t holding the letter into a tight fist, his nails digging into his palms until they almost drew blood. He had destroyed his own family, and now he had destroyed Christine’s family as well. He really did ruin everything, didn’t he? 

She tried to make sense of it in her mind. Why on earth had he left her? Didn’t he know how much she loved him? They were married, for goodness’s sake! 

She replayed their last moments together over and over in her mind as she scanned the streets for any sight of him. He had come in and asked what was wrong, and she had told him Raoul proposed. Then there was the stage hand telling her it was time to go, and she told Erik they would talk about it later. No - that wasn’t quite right - she told him Raoul proposed, then he asked what her response had been, then she told him and then there was the knock- 

She- 

She _had_ told him, hadn’t she? 

Oh- oh no- 

She fell to her knees, not even caring that the costume was getting ruined in the puddles left behind by the light rain from earlier. 

She _hadn’t_ told him. Hadn’t told him that _of course_ she had turned Raoul down, how could she do anything but turn him down? She was already married, she had made her choice! Anyone could have seen that, everyone would have understood that, it didn’t even need to be said - everyone except for Erik. Poor, infuriating Erik, who had never been loved, never been picked by anyone, never shown acceptance, who had faced so much rejection in life that he had fled at the mere thought that she might turn him down _even after marrying him_. Erik, who had no idea how basic relationships worked, let alone a marriage. He probably thought that by leaving he was doing something good for her, something nice. She simultaneously wanted to throw her arms around him and never stop kissing him while assuring him that she would _always_ pick him but also to slap him so hard that it left a handprint. 

“Christine,” Raoul vowed, helping her back up to her feet while she collapsed into his arms and sobbed. “I will find him for you. I will make this right, whatever it takes - I _will_ fix this.”

She nodded, only half hearing him. A figure was fast approaching them, and Raoul protectively moved her to the side of him. 

“Mlle Daaé, what’s wrong?” the approaching man asked when he arrived next to them, a little out of breath from running. 

Christine looked up to see Nadir. 

“Monsieur Khan,” she sniffled, and held the note out to him. “You have to help me find him - he’s gone.”

He scanned the note quickly and frowned, then looked behind him. A few opera goers had gotten sight of where Christine and the Vicomte has gone, and were standing out on the front steps, trying to catch sight of them. Nadir turned back to Christine and Raoul and placed a hand on each of their shoulders, ushering them quickly down the street and around the corner, out of view of gawking eyes. 

“Just down here, and we can keep talking,” he murmured as he led them. 

Once they were finally in a more private spot, he asked again what had happened. 

Christine pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and took some deep breaths. Her nose felt like it was tingling. 

“Erik and I got married,” she finally said, and Nadir’s eyebrows shot up. “But then- then he thought that I wanted to marry Raoul instead, so he- he left me. He put this on my vanity during intermission.”

Nadir glanced between the distraught prima donna and the shamefaced Vicomte as he processed her words. He wasn’t about to ask how they could have possibly gotten married - surely it was a mere euphemism for something else (he couldn’t picture Erik going to the Mairie and posting bans, for one, and couldn’t picture a priest that would willingly perform the ceremony), but he wasn’t about to bring all that up now. If Christine said they were married, then he supposed they were, in a sense. 

“He won’t have left you for long, Christine,” Raoul insisted. “We will find him and explain to him.”

Nadir sighed, examining the note again. 

“I’ve know Erik to run off like this in the middle of fits before,” he said sadly. “Unfortunately, the man disappears like a ghost when he doesn’t want to be found... If he’s intent on hiding, I’m afraid there’s not much we could do to find him.”

Christine choked on a sob. Had she really seen her Angel for the very last time? Impossible! 

“But we can try,” he added quickly. 

“I can’t _not_ find him,” she said fiercely through her tears. 

“Have you checked his house?” Nadir asked suddenly. “He might have gone to pack his things. Of course, it’s possible he already packed and already left... Intermission was two hours ago, after all.”

Christine felt a fresh wave of dismay. He hadn’t stayed to watch her triumphant debut? But- but- 

She wiped her eyes on her arm, anger swiftly growing right alongside her sadness. 

“I’ll check his house,” she said. “I have a key, and I’ll look for him there.”

Nadir nodded. 

“We’ll look around up here,” he motioned between himself and Raoul. “If we don’t pick up any clues, we’ll meet you back here later tonight, in about an hour or so.”

She nodded and quickly left to sneak back into the opera house. Her key to his house was up in her dormitory, and she felt a little like a ghost herself as she carefully crept around corners and tried to avoid any other people. A ghost indeed - perhaps one of the Wilis. It was only fitting, after all. 

She grabbed the key from out of its hiding place in the dresser drawer, tucked between layers of chemises and petticoats, and stole down to one of the secret entrances to Erik’s domain. 

Out on the street, Raoul and Nadir tried to blend in with the general population and not be noticed as participants in the drama that had just unfolded. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance - but sadly it seems my long standing friendship with Erik necessitates that most new people I meet are under rather unfortunate circumstances,” he chuckled awkwardly. 

“You may call me Raoul, Monsieur- Khan, was it?”

It stung to hear the title was no longer his, but at the same time, he really had always preferred to just be called by his name instead. For Nadir’s part, he too saw no need for formality when Erik’s shenanigans were involved - those tended to bring people together quite fast. 

“Nadir,” he nodded. “And it seems we will both be Ghost hunting tonight... How well do you know Erik?”

Raoul’s brow furrowed. 

“I don’t, I’m afraid.”

Nadir paused. 

“You, ah, do you know what he looks like, though, yes?” he asked innocently. 

Raoul pressed his lips together. 

“I’ve seen him once, but from a bit of a distance. Christine has told me about him, too. He wears a mask - all of the time, I assume?”

“All of the time,” he confirmed. 

“You would think it would be easy to find someone like that,” Raoul mused as they moved down the street. 

“He hides it well,” Nadir said, eyes scanning the surroundings. “Hats and capes work wonders at times.”

“Where did you see him, if I might ask?” Nadir looked curiously at the young man, who frowned a little. 

“He, ah, he took Christine to a dance, once. I saw them there.”

“I see,” he smiled faintly at the thought of his friend going to dance. 

“Where do you know him from?” Raoul asked, and it was Nadir’s turn to frown. 

“We go back a long ways,” he said carefully. “He’s a friend of mine, of sorts. We met through his architectural work.”

“He’s an architect?”

“A very talented one, yes.”

“Are you an architect too, then?”

Finally, thought Raoul, a glimpse into Christine’s mystery man, a chance to understand him. 

But Nadir merely looked away when he answered, clearly not desiring any follow up questions. 

“No.”

Raoul was quiet for a while, but the silence felt awkward. 

“How long have you been friends with him?” he asked, not knowing what else to say. 

Nadir thought a moment. 

“Closer to thirty years than not, I believe.”

Raoul stopped walking for a second, his jaw going slack as he desperately tried to do math in his head. _Thirty years_? That was more years than Raoul had been alive! He adjusted his cravat and caught up to Nadir, feeling just a little more antsy than he had a few moments ago. 

Thirty years. 

He had known that Erik was older than Christine, but he hadn’t known by how much. His brow furrowed. He was older than _Philippe_, for goodness’s sake... 

But... He thought again of when he had seen them together. They had been so happy. It might be slightly unconventional, but Christine herself was unconventional. He supposed it didn’t really matter all that much, though it had been a surprise to learn. 

Raoul felt his anxiety growing as time wore on. What if they never found Erik? What would Christine do then? He would never forgive himself if he had destroyed her marriage. He felt on the verge of tears again, but harshly blinked them back. 

It was then that he caught sight of a man on the other side of the street, a man in a black cape with a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his face. Raoul’s heart skipped a beat - was it him? He was walking so fast, about to turn a corner - if Raoul didn’t catch up to him, he might be lost to them forever! 

He darted from Nadir’s side, out into the street without looking, too intent on catching the figure that was swiftly disappearing on the other side to think with any amount of caution or rationality.

He never even saw the carriage coming. 

Christine fluctuated from devastated to furious on her trip down to Erik’s house. When she reached the underground lake and kicked her boat into the water, she had half a mind to simply wade and swim there to save time. It would serve him right, to drip lake water from her soaked clothing all over his fine rugs and warp the floorboards. But by the time she reached the door and unlocked it, her anger had ebbed again, and all she wanted was to find him there and hold him. 

“Erik? Erik, it’s me. Please come out and talk with me.”

The little house was empty. She looked in every room, in every closet (save one that had always been locked ever since she had been visiting), in every wardrobe and bathroom and pantry and wine cellar. Nothing. No sign of her beloved, no sign even that he had been here after he had written her his farewell note. She sniffled and stood in the hallway, at a loss of what to do. 

“Oh, Erik,” she sighed to the empty house. 

He wasn’t here, and he likely wasn’t coming back here, either. She suddenly realized she was still in her costume from the show. She bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. 

This night was not supposed to have gone this way. 

She went to her room and pulled a dress from her wardrobe, changing out of the costume and hanging it in the dress’s place. The costuming department would surely wonder where it was, and they would certainly never find it down here, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. Let them dock her paycheck for the price of the elaborate dress, she didn’t care. All she cared about was finding Erik. 

Her rage and sorrow finally ceased to be separate entities and merged instead into something else - determination. She would find him. Oh, she would find him all right. Find him and slap him. Or find him and kiss him. 

Slap first, then a kiss. 

She grabbed one of her larger handbags that kept here, opening it up and stuffing a few necessities into it. She only packed for a very light trip, but she knew she wasn’t coming back until she found him. Still, she could only carry so much with her. 

Her bag packed, her mind made up, she turned and left the little room of hers, giving it one last somber glance. She did the same for the rest of the house, making certain the fire was out and the stove was cold and the lights turned off. 

The click of the key in the doorknob sounded terribly final to her, and she vowed fiercely to herself that this would not be the last she came here, that Erik would return here eventually and she with him. 

She set off for the upstairs, ready to find Nadir and Raoul and see if they had made any progress in locating clues, and trying desperately not to think of what she would do if she hadn’t found him in three day’s time - before she had to be back for her next performance.


	22. Chapter 22

Nadir’s eyes widened in horror as the young Vicomte stepped directly in the path of the carriage that was barreling down the road. 

“No, don’t!” Nadir shouted as he lunged for him. 

He pulled him back to the curb with less than a second to spare, but the force of being pulled had caused him to turn at an awkward angle, and though he was pulled safely out of the path of the horses, the side of the passing carriage clipped his shoulder. He lurched forward, stumbling. 

“Raoul, are you okay?”

“He’s getting away!” Raoul grit out, squeezing his shoulder. 

Nadir looked in the direction Raoul nodded towards, his brow furrowing. 

“That’s not Erik, Raoul, he’s much too short.” 

The man in question happened to glance to something in the distance, and sure enough - no mask. A whole, normal face and nose. Raoul’s heart dropped. The pain in his shoulder came roaring back and he winced. 

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Nadir fretted. 

People were starting to stare at them, at how Raoul was hunched over with one knee on the ground, at Nadir as though somehow this were _his_ fault, as though he had maimed the boy in some way, perhaps while trying to rob him. 

“I’m fine,” he said breathily as he stood, his face pale and with an expression that contradicted his words. 

“Your shoulder-“

“It’s just a little dislocated, it’s fine.”

“Just a- Raoul!”

“It already went back in, it’s fine!” 

Nadir cringed. 

“I’ve had worse,” he insisted, swaying only a little. 

“Are you sure it’s okay? You don’t need a doctor?”

Raoul shook his head slowly, testing his range of motion, wincing only slightly. Nadir couldn’t help but be reminded of Erik in his younger days, of his foolhardiness and insistence on not seeing a doctor after he’d done something terribly stupid or dangerous or both - why, he’d even used the same phrase he’d heard from his old friend so many times before - _”I’ve had worse, don’t look at me like that, Daroga.”_

“I think the muscle is sprained, but I should be fine after a while.”

Nadir nodded a little and patted Raoul’s uninjured shoulder. 

“Let’s not have any repeats of that, shall we?”

They checked in every hotel down the street the opera house was on, every place where Erik might seek to stay, but no one had seen a man in a mask. 

They began to head back to the opera house, puzzled and a little defeated. 

“I don’t understand it,” Nadir mused. “He couldn’t have gone very far at all.”

“Why’s that?”

Nadir hesitated a moment before telling him. Erik would surely be infuriated at him for having said anything, but, well, it was what it was. 

“He’s not in good health,” he confided to him. “He can’t walk very fast or very far anymore, he needs frequent breaks.”

Raoul felt a deep sadness upon hearing this. 

“We should check the hospital, then,” he said, and swallowed hard. 

Had he really caused Christine’s elderly and sickly husband to run off and desert her, only for the poor man to end up in a hospital? The thought put a pain in his chest equal to the pain in his shoulder. 

Nadir nodded. 

“That’s a good idea.”

They went back to the opera house and found Christine there, having just made her way up from the house by the underground lake. 

“He’s not home,” she shook her head. “And it looks like he hasn’t been there since he left this morning.”

Nadir told her of their own fruitless search, and Raoul pondered for just a moment about where, exactly, Erik’s house was. There were no houses nearby...? 

“Let’s get a carriage and go the hospital,” Nadir suggested, and Christine’s face turned the color of ash, her eyes wide even as she gave a little nod. 

They waited in silence as Nadir flagged down a cab. 

“I really don’t think he’s far,” she frowned and chewed her lip as the carriage pulled them swiftly to the hospital. “He _can’t_ be. But- where could he possibly be?”

It was the sentiment they all agreed on. The ride was spent mostly in concerned silence, interspersed with the occasional idea of where they should look next. Neither of the other two were pleased at Nadir’s suggestion to check the sewers, Raoul and Christine exchanging a glance that said what they both were thinking - _what kind of man had she married, exactly?_ Still, the possibility was not ruled out, although it was understandably not high on the list of priorities. 

They trailed behind her as she went up to the nurse behind the desk if a man wearing a mask had come in that evening for treatment. 

“He’s my husband, you see, and he’s been missing a little while now. But he’s not terribly healthy, I’m afraid, and I was worried that maybe-“

The nurse shook her head. 

“No one in a mask.”

Christine lowered her eyes and tapped her fingers together, trying to figure out how to word her next question. 

“Has there been anyone who, _ahhh_... looks as though they _should_ be wearing a mask, to hide- to hide his-“ she gestured to the side of her face, concentrating on the cheek and nose area. Just because Erik hadn’t come in wearing a mask didn’t mean he wasn’t here, after all - the mask could have fallen off. 

The nurse raised an eyebrow. 

“No, no one like that either. You could try the funeral home, perhaps,” she offered. 

Christine’s shoulders stiffened. 

“Where’s that?” she asked stiltedly. 

The nurse wrote down the address. 

“But they’re closed tonight, I’m afraid. They won’t be open until tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Christine replied, taking the note and walking stiffly back outside. 

Nadir and Raoul followed awkwardly. They had heard the nurse’s suggestion. 

Christine stood still a moment, studying the address on the paper. 

“It’s not far,” she said suddenly, and set off down the street. 

Raoul and Nadir exchanged a glance. The funeral home was closed. Neither one dared to voice this concern. 

The addresses truly was only ten minutes away, and just as the nurse had said, it appeared to be closed. 

Christine took stock of the building, her chin jutted out in defiance. There seemed to be a little apartment attached to the business, and, the late hour be damned, she marched up to the door of it and pounded her fist against it. 

Silence. 

She knocked again, louder this time. 

“Christine,” Raoul fidgeted. “Whoever it is is probably asleep-“

“Hello?” she shouted at the door impatiently. 

“What the devil-“ came a grumbling and confused voice from inside. “We are _closed_, thank you.”

Christine knocked all the more insistently, and both Nadir and Raoul shrunk back sheepishly. 

“This is _urgent_!” she called out. 

A man dressed in a nightcap and robe appeared at the little window, looking very put out. 

She looked up at him. 

“Have you-“ her words stuck in her throat. “Have you... _worked with_ anyone today, with a man, about six feet tall, in his fifties, and- and with very a... a very unusual face?”

He shook his head. 

“I’ve not had anyone come in today.”

She let out the breath she felt like she’d been holding since talking to the nurse. 

“Thank you, Monsieur, and I’m terribly sorry for bothering you tonight.”

She curtsied and left quickly. 

The trio were only a few yards away from the funeral home before Christine suddenly stopped, her courage leaving her. She pressed her hands to her eyes and sniffled. What would she have done if she had found him there, colder than usual, laid out on a table? She couldn’t bear that thought, but the only thing worse than finding him there in that terrible building would be finding him sprawled out in an alley or a ditch. Just because he wasn’t here didn’t mean he wasn’t-

Nadir put a comforting hand on her shoulder, filled with compassion. He too had lost his beloved spouse so long ago, and nothing was quite like that pain. 

“Christine, the things I’ve seen that man survive... He’s tougher than he seems. He’s probably holed away in an abandoned building or something, but I’m sure he’s okay.”

He wasn’t sure, and Christine knew it. They all knew it. But she appreciated the gesture all the same, nodding a little. Raoul hesitated a moment, unsure of his standing with her now, but their longstanding friendship won out over the awkward rejected proposal and he reached an arm around her shoulders to give her a brotherly hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“It’s not your fault, Raoul,” she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. 

She noticed for the first time that he was holding his left shoulder awkwardly, as though he couldn’t move it properly. 

“What happened to your shoulder?” she asked. 

“It’s fine... Well, it’ll be fine eventually. It’s just a sprain,” he gave a lopsided shrug, but still her brow knit as she stared at his injury. 

“Oh, Raoul...” she knew he had likely attempted something ill-planned in an attempt to help her. 

The three walked down the sidewalk like that for a little while, Christine in the middle with Raoul holding her hand, and Nadir close beside her on the other side. She was immensely grateful to both of them, grateful that she didn’t have to do this on her own. 

“He’s not in any of the hotels within walking distance, so I think it’s safe to presume he caught a cab somewhere,” Nadir mused. “Unless...”

“Unless what?” Christine turned to him, hopeful. 

He scratched his head. 

“I mean, I suppose it’s possible that he went to my flat, really... He’s turned up there before.”

He paused, trying to recall any of the things Erik had fumed about in past outbursts, but it was difficult because he really hadn’t had any such meltdowns in a very long while. Still...

“If he’s not there, he likely bought a ticket to go to Ireland,” he shook his head, frowning. “He always says he’s going to Ireland when he threatens to leave.”

Christine’s face fell. 

“He could be _anywhere_!” she fretted, having not considered that until this very moment. 

“I mean, not _anywhere_,” Nadir shrugged. “He wouldn’t go back to Persia, or Russia, or Italy, or China - those are definitely ruled out. He’s probably headed someplace he’s never been before.”

She groaned. It was, she supposed, a long list of places that he wouldn’t be, but they seemed so few in comparison to all of the places he could be going. 

“You go back to your flat, Nadir. We’ll go to the train station and see if he’s bought a ticket tonight,” she said decisively. 

“Christine,” Raoul piped up, almost afraid to say something lest it appear he didn’t care about finding Erik, but- “The train station is two hours away.”

“So?”

Raoul looked helplessly at Nadir, who pulled out a pocket watch. 

“It’s currently ten minutes to midnight,” he informed them. 

She frowned and passed a hand over her eyes, sighing. She _was_ tired...

“You go back to your flat, and we’ll find a hotel and start the search first thing in the morning,” she finally said. 

“A wise plan, I think,” Nadir nodded. “I’ll send a telegram the first chance I get and let you know if he’s there or not. Which hotel will you be staying at?”

“There’s only one nearby, I think,” Raoul gestured to a building down the street. 

Nadir took note of the address. 

“Thank you, Nadir,” Christine said sincerely. “This means the world to me that you’re helping to look for him.”

“I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” he bowed a little. “I’m sure we’ll find him soon, so try not to worry too terribly. And congratulations on your debut tonight, as well. You’ll be hearing from me in the morning. Vicomte, a pleasure to meet you as well.”

He took his leave of them, looking for a cab to flag down and take him back to his flat. Christine and Raoul turned towards the hotel, and she glanced at him. 

“Thank you too, Raoul,” she added softly. “You didn’t have to do this, but you did, and you have no idea how much I appreciate it... and you.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, nodding and blinking hard. 

“It’s alright, Lotte. I want to help.”

They were silent until they reached the threshold of the hotel. 

“Let me pay for both rooms,” he offered, and she hung back a little, letting him approach the concierge by himself. 

“Good evening,” he greeted the man at the desk. “I’d like two rooms for tonight, please.”

The man smiled apologetically. 

“I’m very sorry Monsieur, but we only have one room left this evening.”

Raoul stared at him for a long moment. 

“Are you very certain?”

“Yes, Monsieur, quite certain.”

He rubbed at his temples and looked back at Christine, who was watching him but couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

“One room only?”

“I’m afraid so. Do you still want it?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning and grumbling just a little. He knew it wasn’t the man at the concierge desk’s fault, but it irked him all the same. 

“If I could just get some information, Monsieur,” he handed him the guest book. 

“There’ll be two separate beds, won’t there?” Raoul frowned down at the book as he signed his name there. Perhaps it didn’t have to be so very terrible, as long as there were two beds. 

The man gave him a look between a grin and a grimace. 

“I’m afraid that particular room only has one bed, Monsieur.”


	23. Chapter 23

Raoul wanted to slam his head against the counter. Why had fate chosen to mock him so? Only one bed? He sighed a heavy, weary sigh and leaned his elbows on the counter, resting his head in his hands. 

“Are you _absolutely_ certain?”

The man fretted. 

“Absolutely certain. Will you still-?”

Raoul looked back at Christine once more. She looked so very tired, like she might fall asleep on her feet. He supposed they could go look for another hotel that had more rooms, but at this hour... And how long would that take? What if they couldn’t find two separate rooms? He could leave Christine here he supposed, and look for another place for himself, but he was exhausted and in pain and he’d honestly rather sleep on the floor within the hour than find an actual bed after two hours. 

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, and slammed some money down in the counter. 

The man handed him the key and pointed towards the direction of the room. 

He finished signing the book and turned to Christine, shame and embarrassment written all over his face. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked as he began to walk to walk to the room. 

“There’s only one room, Christine,” his face was red. 

“Oh. Oh, well - that’s not too bad. At least they had a room...”

Raoul was too ashamed to say anything else, and kept quiet until after he unlocked the room. 

Christine walked in and stopped suddenly as she noticed a very glaring feature. 

“Oh. There’s only-“

“One bed, yes,” he said sullenly. “Please don’t concern yourself on the matter, Christine, it’s quite alright. I’ll be just fine in the chair this evening.”

She looked at the wooden chair he had gestured to and frowned. It didn’t look very comfortable for sitting in, let alone sleeping in. 

“Raoul, no - I’m not going to make you sleep in a chair! Your shoulder is hurt! You need to sleep in a bed. I’ll take the chair instead.”

Raoul looked hurt and scandalized at her suggestion. 

“What kind of a gentleman would I be to make a lady sleep in a chair?” his voice bordered on horrified. 

She put her hands on her hips. 

“What kind of idiot would you be to sleep in a chair with an injured shoulder?”

He narrowed his eyes. They were at an impasse. 

“You’re not _not_ sleeping in that bed, Christine,” he said with a time of finality. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“If you sleep in that chair, I’m going to refuse to even touch the bed.”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to puzzle it out. 

“Very well. I won’t sleep in the chair.”

Her shoulders lowered and she breathed a sigh of relief. He had already gotten hurt on account of her, she didn’t want him to worsen his condition further. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Raoul!”

“Well what else are we supposed to do?!”

They stared at each other for a moment with wide eyes, the implication hanging heavy in the air. 

She glanced away, unable to continue her gaze at him. She looked at the bed instead. It was a rather large bed, really... 

“We could,” she swallowed and paused. “We could both- I don’t mind if you don’t mind, not really-“

“My shoulder doesn’t even hurt anymore, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with the chair.”

She walked up to him and poked a finger just above his collarbone. 

“Ah!” he winced and pulled away. 

“It’s only weird if you make it weird, Raoul,” she shook her head and turned back to the bed. “There’s absolutely nothing improper about simply _sleeping_ in the same room.”

She hesitated a moment before adding-

“Besides... No one ever has to know about it.”

He hated to admit it, but she was wearing him down. It really had been a hell of a day. He sighed. 

“You don’t mind? You really don’t?” he couldn’t meet her eye. 

“No.”

He reluctantly made his way to the bed, giving her one last mournful glance, as though he were a puppy being called by its master, a puppy that knew full well that it’s master was going to kick it once it came, but couldn’t help coming all the same. He lay on the bed, on top of the blankets, and stared intently at the ceiling as he wedged himself to the furthest edge possible. 

“Doesn’t that feel better?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he frowned. 

She glanced nervously at the window, hurrying over to draw the curtains shut. The very last thing she needed was for her husband to somehow find out, and she felt certain that peeping in windows was a pastime of his. She really wasn’t helping her case, she knew - if Erik did find out he would only take it as further confirmation that she’d chosen the boy over him. But there was nothing to be done about it. They would sleep and rise at dawn and be on their way and never, ever mention this again. 

She lay down on the other side of the bed, feeling silly. They were both fully dressed and both resolutely refusing to be underneath of the blankets together. 

Raoul glanced nervously at her and then away several times. It felt so terribly awkward to be sharing a bed with a _married woman_ \- especially one he had just proposed to hours before, and all the more so because it was _Christine_. He remembered another young noble of his acquaintance, one his age that he often talked to but didn’t truly consider a friend - he recalled him having bragged about an affair he had had with an older woman who was married... Well, Raoul thought, at least he wasn’t the first to check into a hotel room with a married woman who was not his wife, but this certainly was not a situation he was going to brag about. 

Christine closed her eyes, willing herself to try to fall asleep. The faster she slept, the faster she could find Erik. But sleep refused to come. 

Every time her she closed her eyes she kept picturing how happy she had been as she went in her dressing room, how she’d grinned and grinned, expecting to find Erik there soon enough. And then seeing that little note left folded on her vanity, still not knowing what terrible secret it contained. How often had he left sweet notes for her before? Words of praise and congratulations, of encouragement and consolation - how was she to have known that this note would be the one to shatter her dreams and her heart? 

She pictured the creeping dread and unreality that came over her as she read that fateful note, how she couldn’t help the scream that had come out of her when the words finally arranged themselves in a way that made sense. How her hands shook as she unlocked her door and ran, not even thinking of what she was running towards, but only knowing that Erik wasn’t here and she had to find him, had to get to wherever he was. 

She opened her eyes. 

It was her wedding night, but the man next to her in bed was not her husband. 

She turned her head to look at him. 

Sweet Raoul. He had been there, somewhere between the dressing rooms and the lobby (perhaps wanting to congratulate her performance again but uncertain if she’d want to see him) when he had heard her scream and seen her running, and even though she had just broken his heart not two hours before, he still wanted to check on her, to make certain she was okay, to protect her. 

Perhaps another woman might consider this fate - Erik leaving and nowhere to be found, Raoul here beside her now. But she had never been one to accept the cards dealt to her - she would play her own game of her own choosing, not bide silently by the rules set before her by someone else. 

Raoul was good and sweet and there was nothing wrong with him at all - but she had married Erik, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret that. She could never regret Erik, she only regretted that Raoul had to be hurt. 

“If I could have told you sooner, I would have,” she whispered. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered back, still staring at the ceiling. “I understand.”

Love was a rebellious bird - there was no telling how one might react when in its grips. How often had he found himself daydreaming about Christine, longing for her company, often to the point of folly? If she felt that way about this Erik fellow, well - he couldn’t blame her for getting caught up in it. Whirlwind romances and marriages often left time to think straight. If she had neglected to tell him, it wasn’t surprising. But she hadn’t neglected, not really. How could she have possibly told him any sooner? Could she have climbed the mountains to tell him? Turned herself into a bird to find him and let him know? No, she hadn’t done anything wrong. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, a little nervous. 

“My shoulder is okay.”

She was quiet a moment. 

“That’s not what I meant, Raoul,” she said softly. 

“I am...” he took a shuddering breath. “I am _sad_. But I shall be less sad if you are happy. If we can find Erik, and the two of you can be happy... I’ll be okay.”

“To think that after all this time, Philippe finally changed his mind...” she shook her head a little, her curls rustling on the pillowcase. 

Raoul said nothing. The wicked thought occurred to him that perhaps if he laid his plight out before her, let her know that he had gotten disowned by his beloved brother because of her, that she might change her mind and stay with him instead. But he couldn’t do that to her. She had already picked, and he would come to terms with her choice. She didn’t deserve to be guilted into matrimony. 

Besides - she couldn’t marry him unless her marriage to Erik was annulled, and the man had to be present for that to happen. 

“I don’t mean to insult him, Lotte, but it was rather petty of him to up and leave and pretend to let you marry me when he hasn’t even gotten your marriage to him annulled.”

“Ah, hmm, well, you see-“ she squirmed a little, not sure what to say. “I think- I think that’s part of the problem...”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not- well, we’re not... _legally married_,” she squeaked. 

His brow furrowed. 

“The devil does that mean?”

She sighed. 

“We- we don’t have any papers on file anywhere - I mean _he_ doesn’t have any papers anywhere - and really, Raoul, how you fill out a marriage certificate if you don’t even know when you were born?” she gestured exasperatedly with her hand. “And I know that’s part of why he feels so insecure about us, part of why he thinks you’d be better, but - we _did_ swear to each other in front of God, and I thought... I thought it was enough...”

“He doesn’t have any legal records? None at all?”

“None,” she sighed. 

The gears in Raoul’s head began to turn. This man she chosen was a very strange man indeed. But, perhaps he could help the couple out just a little...

“Do you think he’d feel better if you did have a marriage certificate? Less likely to run off again?”

“I’m sure he’d feel more confident with one - but I’m also certain he’s not going to repeat this again,” there was an edge to her voice that made even Raoul cautious, and he could just picture the complicated rant she was preparing to unleash on her wayward husband when she found him - he didn’t envy the man at all for that. 

They were both quiet a little while, each lost in their thoughts - Christine thinking about the next performance looming over her, and Raoul turning over his curiosity about the man who held her affections. 

“Tell me about Erik,” he said suddenly in a whisper. “What’s he like? What’s he do when he’s not teaching you?

“Well,” she crinkling her nose. “He’s an idiot for thinking I don’t want to be with him, and for leaving like that.”

Raoul chuckled lightly and she smiled a little. 

“But he’s sweet,” she sighed. “He’s always so sweet to me, an he thinks he’s being sweet by giving me up, I’m sure. He tries his best, but he doesn’t always reach the same conclusions most people would... He only wants what’s best for me, but sometimes he misses the mark a little.”

“Hmm.”

Considering how a big a part of her life her teacher had been all this time, Raoul actually knew very little about him. Someone who had lied to her in the very beginning, but someone she had seen fit to forgive, someone who clearly knew what he was doing in regards to singing and teaching, an older man in poor health, deformed and insecure about himself and his standing with the woman he loved more than anything, a man whose best friend was from a foreign land and apparently thought that the most likely place he’d hide was in the sewer... He didn’t really sound like marriage material to Raoul, but clearly Christine saw something in him, so Raoul wanted to know what that was - not because she needed to justify her choosing the man over himself, but because he wanted to see the man behind the mask, too. Strictly metaphorically, of course - Raoul wasn’t certain he actually wanted to see underneath of Erik’s mask. Obviously the man wore it for a reason, after all. 

“He cooks, too,” Christine went on. “He does a lot of things, really. He’s had to, his whole life - he’s been very alone for a very long time. It’s not- it’s not good for him to be alone, though, I don’t think. He needs someone to watch out for him.”

“Is he very ill, then?” Raoul asked, worried. 

“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I don’t think he knows, either. He was supposed to go to a doctor soon, but now-“

“I’m so sorry I did this, Christine,” his voice was anguished in the dark. 

“You didn’t do this, Raoul. He made that choice himself. But I still have faith that we can put all this right again.”

“I hope so...”

“One day when all this is over, perhaps he’ll cook a meal for you,” she smiled a little at thought. “He cooks so marvelously well.”

“I think I’d like that. What’s he like as company, then? What can I expect at dinner, besides delicious food?”

“You can expect him to be nervous,” she laughed a little. “He’s always so nervous around people he doesn’t know. But once he gets used to you... and if he likes you... he’ll be funny, and polite. He’s quite good at conversations when he wants to be. He loves reading. And music, of course. And if he cares about you, he’ll go above and beyond to look after you.”

“He sounds lovely.”

“He is... He’s more than lovely, really,” she hesitated a moment, then rolled to her side to face him, a motion he copied a second later. “Raoul, when I’m with him... He makes me feel like magic could be real.”

She felt a little guilty about telling him all this, about apparently insinuating that Raoul _didn’t_ make her feel this way, but she couldn’t help it. She had so dreadfully few people to talk to Erik about, and Raoul knew her better than most people. 

He studied her face as much as he could in the dim light. 

“I’m glad you found him. You should always be happy like that,” he said sincerely. 

“I hope you find someone like that,” she whispered, smiling sadly. 

He returned the sad smile, not voicing the only thought in his head - he already had found someone like that, but she had married her masked tutor instead. 

“He’s so smart about so very many things... But emotions aren’t one of them, sadly. It’s frustrating, sometimes, when I’m dealing with something like this. But I love him so dearly, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Nadir said Erik is an architect?”

She nodded. 

“Yes, he’s very talented, too - why, you should hear how Bernard-“ here eyes widened and she cut off her own sentence, suddenly springing up. “Bernard! Oh Raoul - if you hadn’t mentioned it-! He works for Monsieur Bernard, a man who owns an architectural company! Oh, we have to talk to Bernard tomorrow! He might have some information for us!”

Raoul’s heart leapt. This was progress, surely! Of course they would find Erik! How could they not?

“That’s excellent, Lotte! First thing tomorrow, if Nadir’s telegram says he’s not with him, we’ll go find Bernard, and then it’s only a matter of time before we find Erik.”

“Thank you, Raoul. You’re wonderful,” she sighed, and closed her eyes. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Raoul stayed awake a while after Christine’s breathing evened out, fast asleep. He was tired, and his shoulder ached, but he was surprised to find he also felt... peace. Not a happy peace, the hurt in his heart was still too fresh, both from Christine and also from his brother, but a peace all the same. He would fix this mess with Erik, and he would be free to do whatever he pleased after that. Of course, doing whatever he wanted would be severely limited once Philippe informed the bank to remove him from all the accounts... Perhaps he’d have to stop by the bank tomorrow and see if he could withdraw any money before Philippe got there. It would have to wait until after he found Erik, thought. He had sworn to Christine, and he wasn’t about to delay the search for him for anything. 

He eventually drifted off to sleep, sad but peaceful, trying to enjoy the presence of Christine so close to him while it lasted. 

Back at the opera house, Colette approached Meg, frowning. 

“Have you seen Christine? The costume department won’t leave me alone about it - they want that dress back!”

Meg’s eyes went wide. 

“No, I haven’t seen her.”

Colette sighed. 

“Well she better return that dress soon or none of us will hear the end of it!”

Once Colette had left, Meg snuck out of her room and stealthily made her way to Christine’s bedroom door. It was unlocked, so she turned the knob and glanced in. Empty. A smirk broke out on her face. 

The ballet corps had heard some of the gossip, but not all of it - all they knew was that Christine had been nowhere to be found after the show had ended, but they had yet to hear that she had run out crying. As far as Meg knew, Christine had been whisked away by her passionate tutor and was currently being ravished in a most enjoyable fashion. 

She shook her head and closed the door. Christine was a very lucky girl, she mused to herself. 

Down in the lobby, there was another minor commotion that no one was aware of yet either. 

Philippe went frantically from opera house employee to employee, begging if anyone had seen his brother. He ended up frightening a maid and two ushers, and finally Madame Giry came out of her office to see what the fuss was about. 

“Monsieur le Comte! Whatever is the matter? How can I help you?” she said solicitously - they had talked to each other on occasions before, and sometimes he had given her a few francs just because - something she had not forgotten. 

“My little brother,” he nearly sobbed. “Please, have you seen him? Was he here tonight?”

“Yes, Monsieur - the Vicomte was most certainly here tonight!”

His face brightened. 

“Where did he go, do you know?”

“Ah, of course - he watched the entire performance tonight, and then he was in the lobby for a little while, and then he left with Christine Daaé.”

His shoulders sagged and his hopeful smile faded. 

“Well, where are they now?”

She fidgeted a little. 

“I’m afraid no one knows, Monsieur,” she gave a shrug. “They went out the main entrance and the was the last anyone saw of them.”

He ran a hand through his hair and turned, walking stiffly towards the main entrance. 

Madame Giry watched him go, narrowing her eyes at him. She huffed, once he was safely out of earshot. Hadn’t she answered a question for him that no one else could? Didn’t that deserve at least _one_ franc? Really? She turned and made her way back to her office, smoothing out her skirt and muttering to herself. 

“At least ghosts know how to treat a person right,” she said once she was in her office again, her words a little louder than her grumbling from a moment ago, her eyes glancing this way and that at the ceiling and the walls, just in case there was anyone listening, anyone who might be inclined to reward helpful concierge managers even when Comtes were rudely forgetful of doing so. 

Nadir was likewise expecting to find a ghost when he arrived at his flat - but Darius answered the door and informed him that he hadn’t seen any sign of Erik at all. Nadir searched every nook and cranny of the flat (something that made Darius nervous - he didn’t like the strange masked magician, and the thought that Erik might have been hiding in the house without him knowing about it made a cold sweat break out on his brow), but he wasn’t there. Nadir went in his bedroom, ready to retire for the evening, a last little spark of flickering hope that perhaps he’d find Erik hiding under the bed or behind a curtain - but once again he was disappointed. He sighed deeply, walking over to the window and looking out at the street that was illuminated by the smallest sliver of moon. His brow crinkled. He was getting too old for these kinds of things, and Erik was too. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been up at such a terrible hour of the evening (morning?), and he felt like he was already falling asleep just standing there. 

“Oh, Erik...” he murmured. “Where are you?”


	24. Chapter 24

The telegram arrived early that morning, the knock on the hotel room door startling them awake - the fact that they were in bed together startling them even more. 

Raoul answered the door, hoping his blush wasn’t too obvious, and quickly thanked the messenger and closed the door before the man could get a good look at his rumpled clothes and red face. 

Christine was likewise red faced, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of her skirt and stretch her arms and torso to ease the pain from her corset digging into her all night. 

“What’s it say?” she asked as he scanned the telegram. 

“He’s not there,” Raoul shook his head. 

Christine hadn’t realized how much she had been hoping he was with Nadir until she found out it wasn’t the case. 

“That just means he’s with Bernard,” Raoul tried to reassure her. 

She nodded, biting her lip, and grabbed her bag with her few belongings in it. She straightened her shoulders and made her way to the door. 

“Let’s go find him, then,” she said, trying to be confident. 

It was when they were on the side of the street waiting for a cab that she realized something. 

“Where’s Bernard’s office?” Raoul asked. 

She stared straight ahead. 

“It’s- it’s-“

She was a terrible wife! She didn’t even know the address her husband worked at! Her brow knit. 

“Oh Raoul- I don’t know the address! But-“ she thought hard - hadn’t she been there only a little while ago? But she had had other things on her mind then... 

“But I do know it has a blue roof...” she hung her head. “That’s all I remember...”

“Well,” Raoul shifted on his feet. “That’s okay. I’m sure we can ask around. What’s Bernard’s last name?”

“I don’t know that either,” she squeaked, flustered. 

She didn’t even know if that was his first or last name... Erik hadn’t told her, or if he had, she had lumped it in with all the other things about his work that he told her but she didn’t understand and had swiftly forgotten about it. But really, how could she have known she’d need such a piece of information like that? 

She brusquely wiped a tear away. 

“How’s your shoulder?” she asked, her voice thick. 

“It’s feeling a little better... I think sleeping on the bed helped it,” he said with a sheepish smile. 

“I told you so,” she smiled a little. 

They caught a cab, and Raoul gave vague directions based on what Christine remembered of her previous trip to Bernard’s office. 

They rode for an hour or more in the directions she pointed out, almost certain she was on the right path, but suddenly nothing looked familiar anymore and Christine almost started crying. What if they were slowly guiding themselves even further away from Erik? 

Raoul hesitated but finally gave the driver directions to the Mairie instead. Perhaps they could accomplish two goals there... 

Underneath of the city roads the little cab was traveling on, down in the sewers, Nadir and Darius were carefully searching for Erik. 

“Erik?” Nadir called out, then paused, listening for any telltale sign of another person here. “Erik, really, now! Are you down here?”

His words echoed and died away, met with only silence. 

“Hm,” he looked at a hand drawn map and crossed off the tunnel where they currently were in, then pointed out a different tunnel nearby. “Come, Darius, we’ll look over here next.”

Darius was secretly fuming over the matter. Perhaps the retired police chief was having a strange sort of fun with all this, but it only made Darius hate the awful _Erik_ even more than he already did. How dare that terrible man make them go down into the sewers? What Nadir saw in him was something Darius would never understand - and something he didn’t want to understand, lest it lead him into even more situations like this one. 

Only a few streets over and up above the sewers that were being searched, the little bell above the door of Bernard’s office tinkled as an unexpected guest walked in. 

“Ah, Erik!” Bernard looked puzzled but welcomed him in warmly. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, fine,” Erik nodded. “I was thinking that I preferred to do some of my work in the office today, actually.”

“Of course, of course! We have a new client who just sent in a list of features they’d like, but they aren’t picky about a layout. Could you get started on that one, perhaps?”

Erik took the list from him and placed it on the drafting table, putting a fresh of paper next to it. He fiddled with a pen for a moment as he stared at the list, then began drawing a preliminary sketch. 

“How’s Christine?” Bernard asked. 

Erik froze, eyes wide. 

“What?”

“Christine - that’s your wife’s name, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. She’s- she’s doing just fine,” he blinked rapidly. 

He had forgotten that Bernard had met her before, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to even remember such a mundane detail about his life. The lines and writing on the paper before him grew blurry, and a few drops of something splashed down on the paper and ruined it. He stared at the water spots for a second before he realized he was crying. 

“Erik?” Bernard sounded worried. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Erik sniffed. 

“It’s these damn allergies,” he said, a little on the loud side, and waved a hand at the air. “Trees, flowers, you know. Always making my eyes itch, and if they’re not itching they’re watering.”

Bernard nodded, but studied him intensely. 

“Yes, I know what you mean... If, ah, if you ever wish to talk about... _allergies_, well, you can always come to me about them,” he offered, his voice kind. 

Erik pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“Thank you,” he said brusquely. “How much is the budget for this house, anyway?”

He tried to lose his sorrow in the general chatter about the client and their budget and designs they had liked previously, but it only half worked. He had promised Christine that she would not have to worry about a Ghost haunting her, but he knew that the ghost of her would always be near to him, always be appearing in unexpected ways at unexpected times. The loss of her felt like an aching void in his soul, and he knew he had no one to blame but himself. 

“By the way, Bernard - I have a new address for our correspondence,” he suddenly said. 

“Ah, let me write it down-“

Erik had been having his letters and packages sent through the care of a local fishmonger who worked quite close to the Populaire - anything sent to the man’s flat and addressed with only the name of “Erik” were then deposited daily in secret location in the alley which Erik checked often. Erik received his mail and didn’t have to go in to the office as often, and the fishmonger- well, the fishmonger didn’t have to worry about the authorities finding out who, exactly, had burnt down the vendor stall of a competitor fishmonger. It worked out nicely for everyone involved, if you didn’t count the man who’s business had been ruined. 

But Erik was no longer living at the Populaire. He gave him the new address, and appreciated that Bernard didn’t ask any questions about why it had changed. 

He appreciated many things about Bernard - the man was, perhaps, the only reason why Erik had not already left France. How could Erik leave without finishing the open contracts he still had that needed to be finished? It was a curtesy he would not extend to most - but Bernard was not like most people. After Erik’s explanation of the mask in his first letter, Bernard had never once mentioned it or even let his eyes linger on it for too long. He treated him like a normal man. More than that, even - he was never hesitant to let Erik know that he thought very greatly of his skills. Erik knew he couldn’t just up and leave him without a note or explanation, couldn’t just steal into the night and disappear, leaving him to wonder at what had happened. Bernard deserved better than that. 

A little voice in Erik’s head saw fit to remind him that _Christine deserved better than that too_, but he pushed it back down, afraid of how it made his pulse speed and his hands feel sweaty, as though once again he was on the verge of being scolded by his mother for something. He _had_ done right by Christine! _Hadn’t_ he? Of course! He had released her from her non-binding vows, she was with her vicomte now, safe and looked after and happy... Wasn’t that what was right? It had to be...

Especially considering he couldn’t very well fix the situation now, if he had been in the wrong. 

After she had taken her bow at the end of her performance, as he had walked out of the Populaire for the very last time, out into the cold streets of Paris, he had been surprised at the thoughts that had awaited him once his mind had cleared from the anxiety and perceived rejection. 

He hadn’t felt like leaving the country, after all. He was no longer twenty years old, ready to drop his current life on a whim and go wherever the breeze took him. Late night train rides and stowing away on ships no longer appealed to him - he wanted stability now, even if nearly everything that had been stable about his life had just been ripped away. 

He had considered, briefly, going to the Daroga’s, but he knew only a lecture awaited him there, and the man might actually make him face Christine again, something he couldn’t bear to do. He instead took a cab to the street of Bernard’s office, hoping to find a hotel close enough that he could walk to work if necessary. He found one, not as close as he would have liked, and he had asked to rent the room indefinitely. It was there that he spent the evening and the following morning in a state of despondency, wanting to leave all of France behind him but also not wanting to have to start over somewhere new at his age, not after how many times he’d already had to flee and start over before. 

The truth was, he had regretted his decision long before he had gotten in the cab. 

He’d never know what Christine had wanted to tell him, and that was as much a source of comfort to him as it was a specter that would hang over him the rest of his life. He couldn’t discern if his regret came from the fact that they wouldn’t be spending their lives together after all, or if, perhaps, he himself had chosen wrong that night in leaving. 

The very thought threatened to undo him. He wanted to go back and do it all over, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to believe it could possibly end any other way than her asking to not be married to him anymore, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle hearing her say those words. 

What other choice did he have but to leave? That’s what he told himself, and most of the time he believed it, too. 

There was a boulangerie near the Mairie, and even though Christine insisted that she wasn’t hungry, Raoul bought some breakfast pastries for them. He was starving, having not eaten since lunch the previous day. He wondered, briefly, how Philippe’s dinner had gone, and if he had made an excuse for his little brother’s absence or if he had laid out the whole sordid tale and ended with “_And that’s why I kicked the rat out!_” With thoughts of Philippe filling his head, the croissant in his hand tasted bitter. Christine managed to eat one as well, despite her protestations. During their little meal Raoul explained his idea to her, and though she held her doubts as to whether he could pull it off, she agreed to it. When they had finished eating, they entered the Mairie. 

It was nearly empty due to the early hour, and Raoul breathed a sigh of relief when saw a man he knew behind one of the counters. 

“Alphonse, my good man!” Raoul greeted him. 

“Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! Good morning to you! What can I help you with?”

Raoul raised an eyebrow. 

“My brother has not been around to see you, I take it?” he asked a little stiffly. 

“No,” Alphonse frowned. “Why, is something the matter?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s the matter, no. Listen, I recall you did a bit of a, ah, a _favor_ for a friend of mine, the Comte de Tournus, and I was wondering if you could do something a little similar for us?”

“Ah, yes... What did you have mind?”

It had only been the previous spring that the Comte in question had sought - and handsomely paid for - a marriage certificate that showed a date of three months prior to his having obtained it, something he had found most necessary in order to save face after the woman he had been seeing had let him in on a little - but swiftly growing - secret. 

“Well,” Raoul drew Christine, who wasn’t certain about the morality of forging documents but who also wanted _anything_ that might save her relationship with Erik, closet to the counter, and the three of them all leaned in conspiratorially. “We’re in a bit of a bind at the moment, you see, because my dear friend’s beloved seems to have lost all of his important papers and he’s terribly embarrassed over the matter, but they would like to get married, and right away, too. I was wondering if perhaps you could help us out here-“

Philippe stared down at the guestbook of the hotel, despairing. Raoul’s signature scrawled across the paper, put there just the previous night, but Raoul himself was apparently no longer here. 

“You just missed them, I’m afraid. They left in quite a hurry,” the concierge said. 

“Are they coming back tonight?”

“They only booked one night.”

“Do you happen to know where they were headed?”

“They didn’t say.”

Philippe huffed and mumbled a thank you to the man before leaving. 

He stood out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, looking this way and that. Where could they have gone? It was incredibly frustrating to be so close and yet so far away. He was terrified that were going to leave the country, that he’d never get a chance to tell him he’d been wrong. 

He _had_ been wrong. Why had he said all those things? Ever since seeing his brother run away from down the road, every single word he had said to him suddenly came to him in stark realization. 

He glanced down each road and finally picked one, hoping to find a few places to inquire within about whether or not they’d seen Raoul. 

On his way down the street, he saw a florist’s little store, and he went inside. 

He hadn’t meant those things he’d said, not really - when it came right down to it, they weren’t his opinions, but the opinions of those around him, parroted back without a second thought. But what difference did it make if they weren’t his opinions, if he never challenged them? He might as well have meant them, in the end. 

“Good morning, Monsieur. What can I do for you today?” the florist asked. 

“Can you send five dozen red roses to an address in Paris by the end of today?”

“Yes, of course. Just provide the address.”

Philippe scrawled down the address of Sorelli’s flat on the paper. 

Somewhere along the line, Raoul had hit upon something that Philippe hadn’t given much thought to. So often the nobility would see fit to criticize and put down the women who worked in the opera, as though there were something shameful about what they did, as though they themselves didn’t frequent the stage doors and salons and dance rehearsals with pocketfuls of cash. What made the girl dirty when the man was able to maintain his reputation after such nights? Wasn’t cheating on one’s wife a worse crime than trying to pay rent or afford a meal or a new pair of dance shoes?

Philippe had laughed at their jokes about them, nodded along with the snide comments, even made remarks of his own. All the time he would secretly say to himself that Sorelli was the exception, she didn’t count, she wasn’t the like the others. 

But Sorelli wasn’t the exception. Sorelli was the rule. Of course he’d never call Sorelli any of those awful names, would never say that her worth as a person had been lowered or compromised by the things she’d done! But what gave him the right, then, to imply that any other girl at the opera was somehow worse than her? What gave him the right to call them those things? 

It didn’t matter if Sorelli had never heard him call Christine a tart, all that mattered was that he had said it, and he had let others say it about chorus girls and ballerinas without challenging it, too. He would make it up to Sorelli, and to Christine. The roses for Sorelli were a start - but only a start. Any sort of apology would have to go far beyond that, however - he knew that it would also involve having to not allow such comments about the girls whenever he heard them. It would involve losing friends and connections, he knew that too. But most of all he knew it would be the right thing to do. 

As soon as he found Raoul, begged for his forgiveness, and gave him his blessing to marry Christine, he was going to visit Sorelli. They had a lot to talk about, and a future together to plan.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very bad at replying to comments, but I appreciate every one of them <3

Christine clutched the thick envelope full of papers to her chest as they exited the Mairie. Not only had Alphonse helped them with the paperwork, but he had also known the address of Bernard’s office. 

Her nerves were buzzing as they got another cab and headed for the office. Raoul realized, of course, that every step closer to finding Erik brought him one step closing to losing her, but that didn’t matter. They had had many good years together, precious years he would treasure forever. It hurt to see her go to Erik, but he knew it would hurt even more to see her pine over her lost teacher. 

Christine peered out the window, distraught to find that they _had_ been in the correct path earlier, they had only missed a single turn. To think, he could have been just the other street over, and they’d never known! 

They’d spent hours at the Mairie - forging documents was a long process, and there had been much to decide on the spot. Christine knew some of Erik’s history, of course, and made up the rest for him. She didn’t know how he’d feel about her having picked a birthday for him, or a name for his father for that matter, but it had been necessary. She ran a finger down the side of the envelope containing each precious paper. She hoped he liked the name Charles, because not only had she picked it for his father’s name, she’d also said it was his middle name. 

Raoul paid the cab and they stood in front of the office a moment. He took a deep breath and stepped forward to go in, but Christine’s hand shot out and grabbed his elbow, causing him to pause. 

“Raoul - Bernard knows me,” she fretted. “He’s going to wonder what’s going on if I go in and ask where my husband is, especially if he’s seen him since after the opera performance... And he’ll know we don’t live together, and he’ll ask questions, and it’ll be awful.”

Raoul frowned. 

“I’ll go in,” he said slowly. “I’ll ask for Erik, and then I’ll come back and let you know.”

She nodded, squeezing the envelope tight and hanging back on the sidewalk. 

Raoul went in alone, and was greeted by a receptionist who went to get Bernard. 

“I’m looking have a custom house made,” Raoul started off, hoping he sounded convincing. “And I heard you have a highly talented architect working for you by the name of Erik, I believe? Well, I saw some of his blueprints and I was hoping to get him to make a floor plan for me as well.”

“Ah, very well! I’m quite sure we can work something out. Could you leave a good address for telegrams? We’ll contact you as soon as we can.”

“Oh- I- I was hoping to meet with the man directly - is he not here right now?”

“He’s not, unfortunately,” Bernard said carefully, and it was true - Erik had excused himself from work less than a half hour ago, citing a headache. “But I will make certain that he gets your request.”

“I was rather hoping to meet him-“ 

_face to face_

Raoul stuttered, stopping the unfortunate choice of words before they came out. 

“Meet him _in person_, if that was possible.”

“I’m afraid Erik does not meet with clients himself, as per his own request,” he shrugged a little with a wry grin. “Geniuses, you know. A finicky bunch.”

“Is it entirely out of the question, then?” 

“Entirely. But you may leave a note with anything you wished to say to him, and I assure you he’ll read it.”

Raoul wanted to press the matter and very nearly tried to insist that he had to see Erik, but suddenly a thought occurred to him. 

“Of course! Do you have a paper and a pen I could use?”

The items in question were provided, and Raoul wrote down a request that went along the lines of what he’d already told Bernard, then handed the note to him. 

“Will he receive this when he comes in next, or will you be mailing it to him?” Raoul asked innocently. 

Bernard eyed him suspiciously, but smiled politely. He found he often felt protective of Erik - surely one of the reasons he had asked to not meet with any clients had to do with his old injury. People could be cruel. Was this young man here to have a house built, or had he heard stories and had come to gawk? 

“Either way, he will receive it,” he assured him. 

Raoul took notice of the dark envelope the letter was put in as he thanked Bernard and took his leave. 

Christine stood outside, switching between pacing in a little circle and standing stock still as she stared at the door to the office. What if Erik was in there right now? She should march right in and demand an explanation from him! She refrained. But surely Raoul would set him straight! She could just picture him striding out of the office, leading Erik with a firm grasp on the back of his shirt collar (a difficult prospect, considering their height difference) and guiding him right up to her, scowling at him until he apologized to her. 

But soon enough Raoul came out of the office, and quite empty handed. She wasn’t certain what emotions she felt as he walked over to her, his brow furrowed. 

“He’s not-“ she started. 

“Not there,” he shook his head. “But-“

He explained his next idea - if he was correct, Bernard was going to send the letter, and when he did, they would find out exactly where Erik was. 

“If he sends it by a page boy, we follow him. If he takes it to the post office, I pull a few strings and we get to see the address on the letter,” he continued. 

Christine bit her lip, staring at the office door. Erik often got mail from Bernard when he lived under the opera house. He would almost certainly send it to him. Except- 

What if he sent it to him, but it went to the opera house, just the same as always? She didn’t know what she would do if that was the case. They would be back to square one. 

Raoul could see the concern on her face. 

“We’ll stay here until he either sends the letter, or until he leaves for the evening. We can follow him home, if that’s the case - do you think Erik might be staying with him?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Then we’ll try that, and if it doesn’t turn out, we’ll head to the docks in the morning. I can convince the ticket sellers to divulge if he’s bought a ticket out of France, and where he’s heading if he is.”

She nodded, her eyes watering, and she took a step closer to Raoul. As awful as the thought of Erik having already boarded a ship away from France was, there were other thoughts that tormented her even more. What if some calamity had befallen him? What if- what if he had hurt himself? She would far rather have him on ship sailing to some unknown destination and safe than for either of those other options to have happened. 

They spent a long while out in front, agonizing in silence. Dark clouds began to roll in, portents of a storm that was brewing. The shopkeeper on the corner came out to glare at them, as though they were street urchins waiting to rob him. Finally, just as Raoul was about to say that perhaps he had been wrong after all, the receptionist walked out of the office, and sure enough, there was a dark envelope in his hand. 

Raoul’s heart beat wildly in his ears as a giddy grin broke out on his face. He had been right after all! 

Christine squeezed the papers tightly. Was she now closer to finding her husband? 

They hung back a few seconds before starting off at a leisurely pace behind the receptionist. 

He walked for a frustrating amount of time, an amount Christine was certain that Erik wouldn’t be able to walk without a break, and she was getting impatient. Where was her damned husband? And would they even get wherever they were going before the weather turned bad? What if the rain soaked through her envelope and ruined the documents inside?

At last the receptionist entered a hotel on the corner of the street. They watched as he went up to the concierge desk and showed the man there the name on the envelope, and then as the concierge told him something and he nodded before setting off to the left. 

Raoul rushed up to the desk and Christine scurried off to follow the receptionist, but she had been just a moment too late - she had lost him. 

“I’m here to see Erik Travers, I was told he’d be here,” Raoul said eagerly. “Can you tell me which room he’s in?”

The man frowned. 

“Do you have a letter for him?”

“No, but I need to see him.”

“He’s requested no guests,” he said firmly. 

Raoul’s face fell. 

“But... It’s dreadfully important...”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur - no guests.”

Raoul wandered away, at a loss of what to do and wondering where Christine was. 

She found Raoul a moment later, telling him how she lost the trail of the receptionist. 

“But he’s here,” she sighed. “He’s here.”

He glanced back at the concierge, who seemingly hadn’t noticed Christine yet, and then he took her arm and led her outside. 

“They said he’s not allowing guests, but he’s obviously allowing letters,” Raoul said once they were outside. “The concierge didn’t see you were with me - you can pretend you’re here to give him a letter,” he gestured to the envelope she was holding. “They’ll send you up to him.”

She looked up at Raoul with wide eyes. All of his cleverness, his connections, his patience, had paid off. 

“I don’t know how I would have done this without you,” she whispered. “I can’t thank you enough.”

He took a p tremulous breath. It hit him at that very moment that they were saying goodbye. Hunting down Erik had been a wonderful distraction from reality, an adventure with Christine, but it was over now - they had found him, and she would go to him, and Raoul would have to leave all by himself. He blinked out at the street as rain began to sprinkle down and wet the ground. He had sixteen years of memories with her to contemplate. 

“We were friends before all this started, weren’t we, Lotte?” he said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted but she could hear the deep sadness that lay just underneath. 

“Of course,” her heart ached. 

“Do you think that- maybe one day- a long time from now- that we might be friends again?”

She blinked against her own tears. 

“We’re friends right now, Raoul,” she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “We will _always_ be friends,” she whispered fiercely. 

She closed her eyes as they embraced, the only people on the street because of the rain. The rain. She hated that rain, hated how cliched it all seemed for it to be falling now, but she supposed she was grateful that it had cleared the streets for them to have this last intimate moment together, and she was certainly grateful for the awning over the doorway of the hotel that was keeping the hateful rain from getting on either of them. 

She pulled back a little and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. He clung to her a little while longer, and she let him. When at last he found the strength to pull away, he took both of her hands in his and kissed her knuckles, trying to remember the last time he had kissed her lips. 

“I love you, Christine,” he whispered into her hands. 

She sniffled. 

“I love you too, Raoul...”

He knew that she did, knew also that it wasn’t the kind of love he had hoped. 

“Do you still have the ring?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

“Hold on to it,” she smiled sadly. “I’m sure there’s a girl out there it’s going to look absolutely lovely on.”

Raoul was silent a moment, studying her face. 

“It’s for you,” he said simply. “It’s only ever for you.”

Her brow knit and she opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first. 

“You should go to him,” he let her hands slip from his own. “He’s waiting for you, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Raoul-“ she nearly sobbed. 

“I’ll be down here if you need anything, okay? Now go get Erik.”

She nodded, turning slowly to go back inside, her gaze lingering on her old friend for as long as it could. 

She already considered herself married, and it was customary for the father to walk the bride down the aisle, but she couldn’t consider this anything less than Raoul giving her away to her groom on her wedding day. It was bittersweet, and she had no words. 

She went inside the hotel, and the echoing click of the door closing behind her rang out with a certain finality. 

Raoul tore his eyes away from that door and stood and watched the rain, which was coming down heavier now. Eventually he went inside, making his way to the little restaurant attached to the lobby. He needed a drink. 

But there was no respite to be found, not even at the bar. The acrid taste of liquor only served to remind him of Philippe, another face he’d never see again, another person he had loved who had left him. There would be no more evenings spent sipping brandy and cognac and laughing over amusing stories with Philippe by the fireside, just like there would be no more long afternoons spent with Christine under the shade of a tree. 

He left a coin for his barely touched glass of brandy and shuffled outside. Christine had been gone long enough by now - Erik was surely upstairs, and he had surely accepted her into his room. She had certainly shown him the marriage certificate, proof that they were legally wed now. Right now they were probably- well, what else did newly married couples do all alone in a hotel room? 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

It was dark out now, the rain falling steadily. He intended to set off down the sidewalk - he didn’t know to where and it didn’t matter - but he stopped abruptly, too surprised by the figure who was approaching. 

Philippe stopped as well, just as shocked as Raoul. 

He had been walking in the rain for some time now, his hair plastered down and his fine clothing soaked, but seeing his little brother now - it was all worth it. He’d fall to his knees and grovel in the muddy gutter if that’s what Raoul wanted. 

He’d come here on the basis of what he had been told at the Mairie - that the Vicomte and a young woman had come in for a marriage license, and had then asked for the address of a certain architect. He had found that the architect’s office was closed, so he had set off down the street in hopes of finding somewhere else to inquire within. He had hoped that they might have picked a hotel close by, but he was surprised to find that they had. 

Raoul felt a cold chill go down him - why was he here? To yell at him some more? To demand the very cash from his wallet? To call Christine some name again? 

Philippe took a deep breath. His little brother, whom he loved. How could he have said otherwise? He had fled without a title or a future to call his own, had married Christine, and were likely planning on going someplace else very soon - but he had caught him, just in time! He didn’t need to flee! He would show him!

“I take it all back,” Philippe told him urgently. “All of it - I take it back. Everything I’ve said. You can marry Christine, you can do whatever you wish. You will always be a victime and you will be always be my brother - Raoul, can you ever forgive me?”

Raoul felt the tears that had been threatening to spill since letting Christine go suddenly become too much to hold back. His choked on a sob and ran to Philippe, hugging him. 

Philippe hugged him tightly, tears running down his own face. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he cried. “I lost control - I never should have said any of those things to you. And I never should have said any of those things about Christine, either.”

Raoul nodded, not able to speak. The rain mingled with his tears. 

“I want you to marry Christine - you two were made for each other. I’ve been a fool to keep you apart.”

Raoul began to cry all the harder. 

“I’ve sent a telegram to Adele,” he continued, sniffling. “I want to set things right. She can live with us again, if she wishes to - her and her husband and child, titles for all of them. I should never have sent her away.”

“What- about- the other- other nobility?” Raoul stuttered. 

Philippe pulled back a little and ruffled Raoul’s hair, a difficult task when it was soaked with rain. 

“Damn the opinions of the other nobility,” he said gruffly. 

Raoul managed a wobbly smile. 

“Now,” Philippe said suddenly. “Where’s your lovely bride?”

And Raoul’s face fell again, not certain he had the strength to relay that particular story, but finding himself telling it to him anyway, words pouring from his lips like the rain from the clouds, finding fresh tears streaming down his already wet face - and finding his brother was sympathetic to him, that he seemed regretful over his younger brother’s loss, and not a single word of _I told you so_ or _good riddance_ or _she could still be a mistress, if you pay her enough_, and Raoul was very grateful for that, at the very least. 

Christine had approached the concierge desk with solemnity. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “I have a delivery for a-“ here she glanced at the back of the envelope in her hands “-Monsieur Erik... Travers? Am I in the right place?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle - the top floor, the last room on the left. The stairs are that way,” he pointed them out. 

Dozens of thoughts were swirling through her head as she walked up the stairs. What if he truly didn’t want her anymore? What if he had looked out the window and saw her kissing Raoul? What if he didn’t trust her after that? What if he sent her away, tore up the marriage certificate?

With trembling hands she reached out and knocked on the door of the last room to the left.


	26. Chapter 26

Erik did have a headache, of sorts. He couldn’t stop thinking of what had occurred, and it made his head ache. 

He’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? Then why did he feel so terrible over it? 

He shuffled into his hotel room, locking the door behind him. He tossed the blueprints onto the pile on the table, not caring how they scattered across it. It wouldn’t be dark out for a little while yet, but all he wanted to do was go to sleep. 

He stared out the little window, miserable. People strolled by on the sidewalks, carriages trotted along the roads, all of them oblivious to his pain. He huffed and closed the blinds harshly. 

Why was he angry? He’d done this to himself. Or had he? It was that boy’s fault, wasn’t it? It certainly couldn’t be Christine’s fault... 

He took his mask off and rubbed at his eyes. 

A knock sounded at the door, and it irritated him. Couldn’t a man even cry in peace? He affixed the mask once more and schooled his expression into one less vulnerable. 

He pulled the door open just wide enough to glare at whoever it was, then immediately regretted his harshness. It was only the receptionist from the office. 

“This was left at the office for you, Monsieur,” the young man bowed just a little and handed him an envelope. 

“Thank you,” he muttered. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I’ll see you at the office,” he bowed again and took his leave. 

Erik nodded and closed the door, eyeing the envelope. Once safely locked in his room again, he opened it and began to read. 

_Hello Monsieur Travers, I am writing to inquire about the possibility of having you design a building for me. As a nobleman I can assure you that you will be handsomely rewarded, and it would be most agreeable to me if we could meet to discuss-_

Erik stopped reading. He rolled his eyes and let the note drop to the floor. 

What the devil did he care about some snooty nobleman who wanted to meet with him? Let the man meet with Bernard or find another architect to work with, for all he cared. He had had enough of noblemen in his life. 

His irritation only grew as he shucked off his jacket and threw it on the couch, not quite accidentally stepping on the letter that he had discarded on the floor. He rolled up his sleeves, intending to throw himself into his work until he was tired enough to fall asleep, but as he approached the table all of his irritation faded into simple sadness. He couldn’t focus on work like this, not anymore than he had been able to focus on it in the office. 

He sighed and left the main room, instead going into the little bedroom. 

Erik lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, repeating his nightly ritual of cursing himself. What was he going to do now? He very clearly hadn’t thought this through. That was his problem, he thought, when it came to Christine - he never really thought things through. Not when he had first told her he was an angel, not when he foolishly kissed her and told her he loved her, not when she had told him about Raoul’s proposal. All situations that surely could have turned out better had he actually used his brain rather than react. 

His eyes traced the crack in the plaster he already had memorized. He couldn’t feel calm here. He couldn’t feel calm anywhere, really. And whose fault was it that he had to leave his nice home that he had worked so tirelessly on? He sighed. It had seemed so _right_ in the moment. But he had left in such a rush, and all because of his damned ego. 

But wasn’t it justified, in a way? His anger and shame that had caused him to flee? His impossible goal, his heart’s fondest desire had finally seemed within reach - she had said she _loved_ him - and then, just like that, it had all been taken away simply because the vicomte has waltzed up and proposed, _even though she was already married_. Oh, it had _stung_. It still did. 

When he closed his eyes he could still see her frustrated, teary face - _”please, we’ll talk about this later!”_ \- well, they’d never get to talk about it now. He had made sure of that, hadn’t he? His noble intentions of freeing her to marry the rich, handsome young man were drowned out by the cowardice and fear of having to actually face her as she told him her decision to leave him for the boy. He desired for her to be happy and well cared for, yes, but he had also known that had that conversation continued, it would have utterly annihilated him. So he had fled instead. 

Had his intentions been truly noble, he would have graciously released her from her vows and simply remained underground in his home. 

He rolled into his side, facing the wall. 

He was not noble, though - he was simply a man like any other, even if he didn’t look it. He didn’t think he could bear to be around her after what had transpired, couldn’t bear to hear her sing on stage or to see her image on posters around the opera house - he most definitely could not bear to continue to teach her after that. 

So he had left his home for an unknown future, taking nothing with him. If he had stopped and _thought_, maybe he at least could have packed better. He’d barely had anything to take with him, and he regretted it now. He was far too embarrassed to go back for anything, so he presumed he’d never see all of his compositions again. He’d never see his beloved music box again, or his fine furniture or specially tailored clothing. He’d never see Christine again. 

There was a knock at the door. 

He tensed, wondering who it might be. Another letter? But from whom? He had specifically asked that no guests be sent up to his room! Had the receptionist forgotten something? Finally he rolled over and sat up, making sure his mask was in place before striding over to the door and opening it a crack, preparing to verbally accost whoever was annoying him and intruding so rudely on his privacy. 

A lecture was forming on the tip of his tongue as he opened the door. Why couldn’t he just have some damned solitude to mourn the loss of-

“Christine,” he exhaled and stared, and she stared right back up at him, her eyes sad yet hopeful. 

She looked at him closely, her anger swiftly fading, a single hand giving a twitch - all that came of her original intent to slap him upon seeing him. She had so many things she wanted to say to him in that moment, but the first thing that popped out of her mouth was-

“You know, for a ghost, you were terribly easy to find.”

“I- I wasn’t expecting anyone to look for me,” his words fell flat. 

At a loss of what else to do, he opened the door wider and let her in the room. 

“Why are you here?” he asked, his mind feeling as though it had stopped working. 

“Why are _you_ here?” she shot back at him, reproachful. 

He swallowed hard and looked at his feet. 

“Does the boy know you’re here?”

“He’s downstairs. He’s the one that found you, and brought me here. He’s also the one that found these.”

He noticed for the first time that she was holding a large envelope. His brow furrowed. Divorce certificates were the first thing that came to mind, but no - they weren’t even married to begin with. A restraining order, perhaps? An arrest warrant? 

She didn’t hand it to him, however. She didn’t even mention them as she sat down on the couch, studying the room he had been staying in. At last her eyes fell to him. 

“How’s your heart?” she asked, concerned. 

He shrugged, not certain how to react to her as she sat on his couch like a graceful visitor when there was so much still unsaid between them. 

“Nothing too bad, I suppose,” he answered. 

She nodded. 

“Is this where you’re staying now?” she studied the room, a quality one, if a little bare. It amused her, almost, that all this time everyone had thought that he was hiding in the sewers or some shack somewhere - yet here he was, a decent hotel room, just like any other man. 

“It would seem that way,” his eyes scanned it nervously, wondering what she thought of it. 

“Are you not coming back to the opera house, then?

“I-“ he didn’t know what to say. “I don’t believe so.”

“Why did you leave?” she blurted out. 

“I’d no reason to stay after- after... Without you, I mean. I’m not tied to the building,” he stuttered. 

“No,” she shook her head slowly, surprised at how calm she felt. “I meant, why did you leave _me_?”

Erik hung his head, thoroughly ashamed. Was she really going to make him list his inadequacies? 

“I left because of you, Christine,” he said tersely. “So that you could be with the boy.”

_As you should be_, he nearly added, but was afraid his voice would crack. A wave of sadness had hit him, and he didn’t think he could explain anymore on the subject without weeping. 

She watched him closely for a moment, how he fidgeted and avoided looking at her. There had been so many things she had wanted to say to him, so many things to bring up that she had thought of while he was missing, but all of them seemed to escape her now that she was before him. 

“Did you ask me if I wanted to be with the boy?” 

Erik stared at the wall with wide eyes, thinking about her question, but unable to answer her. 

“Did you stop loving me, Erik?” she asked softly, sadly. 

His gaze shot up and he locked eyes with her, surprise written across his face. For a moment he felt as though he wouldn’t be able to answer at all, his voice choked off by emotion. 

He didn’t know why she was here, didn’t know what she had told Raoul for certain - for all he knew, she had already married the boy. But he couldn’t lie to her, regardless of what would happen after this. It might be the last time he ever saw her, and he didn’t want any regrets about it. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, sweet,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’ll love you for all of this life and into the next.”

There were tears in her eyes at his words. She jumped up and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. Unthinkingly, he returned her embrace, holding her tightly and burying his face in her hair. 

“You didn’t give me a chance to explain,” she accused, crying. “You just left me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Christine,” he stroked her hair. “What were you going to explain? Tell Erik what you wanted to say.”

“I told Raoul no, Erik. I’m already married, how could I even think of marry him?” she sniffed. 

Erik was reeling. He _had_ left her - he had left his _wife_. The boy had proposed, she had turned him down, and then her husband had left her. He felt lightheaded. He needed to sit down. Christine had agreed to be his wife _and he left her_. 

He staggered backwards to sit heavily on the couch, and Christine went with him. 

“Christine, oh, Christine - can you ever forgive me?” he cupped a shaking hand to her cheek. “I thought- I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I will always want you,” she whispered. “Always.”

She pulled back to look at him. 

“But I’m mad at you, too,” she told him, and he winced. “Do you have any idea how frustrating and upsetting it was to have you do that? I chose _you_, Erik - I married _you_ \- and then at the first sign of any kind of problem you pushed me into Raoul. Do you really doubt me so much?”

“Christine is far too kind to give Erik so many second chances,” he murmured into her hair, hugging her again. 

“I know that it’s very hard for you at times, Erik,” she pushed back from him, needing a little space to finish what she wanted to say. “But do you honestly think this is easy for me? Having you leave like that? Knowing that my husband has so little faith in how I feel about him?”

She wiped at her eyes and her nose with the backs of her hands. 

“Do you really think I would hurt you like that?” her voice trembled, and his heart broke. 

“I am sorry, Christine,” he said softly, reaching a hand to wipe away one of her tears. 

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she sniffled. “I want you to _do better_. I want you to be able to talk to me and not just run when things get scary. You vowed to be my husband for the rest of your life - I know you didn’t say it to a judge or a priest, but you said it to _me_, and I had thought that counted for _something_,” she shot a hurt glare at him. 

He swallowed hard. 

“So I thought that perhaps this might help,” she finally pulled some papers out of the envelope, and handed one in particular to him. 

A marriage license - all filled out with both of their information, and with her signature already at the bottom. All that was left blank was the empty space waiting for him to sign his name. He ran a finger across the printed name there - _Erik Charles Travers_. 

“Did- Christine, did you pick this for me?” emotion overwhelmed him. 

She nodded. 

He squinted at the paper. 

“Did you make me fifty-three also, or was that the boy?”

She smoothed out her skirts with nervous hands. 

“That was me,” she said, not meeting his eye. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, Erik, but I’m afraid you don’t quite pass for thirty anymore...”

He huffed, the beginnings of smile twitching at his lips. 

“I could have been forty,” he ventured. 

She wrinkled her nose. 

“Forty? Erik, the opera house has been standing for twenty six years - you weren’t fifteen when you started designing it.”

“You never know, Christine...” 

She rolled her eyes and reached out to squeeze his wrist. 

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” she took a deep breath. “I still want to do this. If you- if you still want to stay married to me... We can start over. I want that. Don’t you?”

He could barely nod. He wanted it so very badly. 

“But if you sign this, Erik - there’s not going to be any going back. It’s a legally binding document, even if it is forged. That means you can’t ever run out on me again. Not if you think you should, not if some rich boy seems to like me, not if I’ve burnt dinner for the hundredth time - because now, Erik,” she reached a hand out to cup the side of his face, her mouth smiling but her eyes watery. “Because now, if you leave after we’re legally wedded, I’ll send the gendarmes after you.”

He laughed a little at her joke, at the image of Christine going down to the police station and asking politely, “_my husband seems to have disappeared again - could you please find him in time for dinner?_”, but deep down they both knew how much it pained her to have to say it. 

“I promise,” he whispered. 

She looked down at the other papers in her hands, then handed another one to him. 

“Raoul was invaluable in getting these for you,” she told him as he took the paper, this one a little weathered. “I could never have done this without him.”

A birth certificate. The paper even looked vintage, and Erik could have sworn it was real. He didn’t entirely know how he felt about the boy knowing so very much about him now - about, perhaps, feeling as though he owed Raoul something - but the thought that Christine went to the trouble to get something like this for him, to give him a history, to grant validity and legality to his existence - he was quite touched. And the thought that Raoul had agreed to help her in her quest, well - presumably the boy did not hold too much ill will towards him for stealing the woman he loved? 

He stood and took the papers over to the table and fished a pen out from under a pile of blueprints. Christine came and stood next to him, putting her arms around one of his, leaning her head on his shoulder as she watched him carefully sign the marriage license. He finished and set the pen down, then he turned to Christine, placing a gentle finger under her chin to lift her face up towards his, leaning down and kissing her lips softly. 

He pulled back, his apology dying on his tongue, and instead he murmured-

“I will do better in the future, sweet girl. I promise.”

She smiled as she wiped away one last tear. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“Now, did Bernard rat me out? How did you find me?”

She laughed. 

“He refused to! Raoul pressed him so hard to find out how he could meet you in person, but Bernard would only let him send a letter! We ended up following his receptionist here, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm hm,” she lowered her voice a little. “I was scared when we couldn’t find you, Erik. I thought- well, anything could have happened to you, really. And that frightened me. Why would you do that?”

She searched his face, watching as he blinked against tears. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was frightened, too... I was afraid of what you were going to say, when you came back. I couldn’t stand the thought you might-“ he couldn’t even finish the words, searching her eyes, hoping she would understand. 

She nodded, trying to encourage him to keep going, but he shook his head instead and pulled her close, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, trying to bite back tears. 

“It’s alright, Erik,” she cooed, patting his back. “I know what you were afraid of. But you don’t have to ever worry about that, Angel, it’ll never happen. I’m not leaving you, not for anything.”

He peppered kisses to her neck, but said nothing. 

“I mean really-“ she laughed a little. “You already tried to get away from me and it didn’t work.”

He pulled back to meet her eye, feeling a little more stable now. 

“Have you been looking for me all day?”

“I’ve been looking for you ever since I got off the stage, Erik.”

“Oh- oh, my poor sweet - you probably haven’t even eaten dinner yet - oh, Christine, you need to rest-“ he fretted over her, jumping up from the couch. 

He grabbed an extra pillow to place behind her, urging her to put her feet up on the couch. He unbuttoned her little shoes and slid them off her feet, which she promptly hid under a pillow, too shy to leave them there for him to look at even if they were still covered in stockings, though she had to admit it did feel better to have the shoes off after walking so long. 

“Don’t you worry about a thing, sweet, I’ll order dinner for us,” he assured her, and went across the room to another little table by the wall. 

On that table was a strange little contraption, the likes of which she’d never seen before. He picked up a small piece of the contraption, one that was held to the rest of it with a wire, and to her surprise, he spoke into it. 

“Hello? Yes, this is Erik Travers, and I’d like to order two of the dinner specials this evening, and a bottle of wine, please. Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

Christine stared, stock still except for the parting of her lips as she watched her husband in disbelief. The stress of it all had gotten to him, the poor dear, and he had finally lost what little sanity he used to possess. 

He placed the little piece on top of the larger part, and as he did he noticed her staring. A grin broke out on his face. 

“Isn’t it marvelous?” he gestured to the thing, whatever it was. “It’s a telephone!”

“Oh?” she asked evenly, realizing she would have to humor him. 

Well, she _had_ promised to stand by him in sickness or in health... 

“It can carry voices over great distances - I was talking to the concierge just now. This little invention is going to be popping up everywhere soon enough, mark my words on that.”

“Is that so?” she smiled sadly. Did he really think he could hear a voice through that thing? 

He tilted his head. 

“Haven’t you heard of them before, Christine?”

She paused a moment. 

“No, I can’t say that I have, I’m afraid.”

“They’ve had them around for a little while now, but I’ve never seen one myself before here. I hear Paris is putting in lines for the entire town to be using, eventually. Here, come see how it works!”

He reached for her to join him. She slowly got off the couch and went to stand next to him. She looked up at him, unable to hide the pity written across her features, but luckily Erik was too involved with his so-called ‘telephone’ to even notice. 

“You press these numbers here, and you pick this up, that’s the receiver-“ he held the receiver up next to her ear, dialing the concierge number for her. 

She continued to stare at him, wondering how long she needed to wait before pretending to hear someone’s voice. 

But suddenly there _was_ a voice. 

“Concierge, how I can help you?”

Her eyes grew wide and her face flushed. 

“Oh! Um, hmm-“ she squirmed, then reached up and took the receiver from Erik’s hand, placing it on the rest of the telephone as he had done when he was finished speaking earlier. 

Erik laughed as she began to pace a little nervously, her eyes darting around the room. How was she supposed to cope with such strange technology right next to her? He came up behind her and put his arms around her. 

“Is Erik’s little wife afraid of the telephone?” he asked, amused. 

“No!” she pouted, leaning back into his arms. “But... I’d just rather not use it, that’s all. You can use it instead, that’s fine.”

She glanced back at the telephone as Erik nuzzled his face into her hair. Would more and more places have these strange devices soon, just like Erik had said? What a strange world that would be. Perhaps they could have used it to help find Erik, if everyone had had one. 

Erik was beyond content to simply hold her. They were married now - really and truly married, though he supposed that they had been since that morning of her debut. The worst had happened - the boy had wanted to marry her - and yet even after removing himself from the picture, she still insisted on being with him instead. They stood on the other side of catastrophe, together. He never could have pictured this. How luck he was to have a wife who loved him so very much. 

He tentatively kissed her cheek, half afraid that she’d pull away, but she smiled and made an appreciative noise. Emboldened, he began to pepper her neck and behind her ear with more kisses, which she allowed for a few moments before she did pull away. 

“Dinner will be here soon,” she said as way of an apology, her cheeks pink and her pulse fast. 

He straightened the cuffs and sleeves of his shirt, embarrassed and a little confused. Dinner wouldn’t be brought up for a little while still. Did she not want to-? She had seemed to, before, when they’d gotten married the very first time... But that was then, and this was now. Perhaps things had changed in that respect. He watched as she settled herself on the couch, not following her. It stung a little, and he had _hoped_\- but she didn’t owe him that. 

He cleared his throat and turned, nervously trying to tidy up what he could around the room. He hadn’t been expecting any company. He couldn’t figure out how he had made such a mess with so few belongings, yet still they seemed strewn everywhere. Soon enough his fretting took him near Christine. 

“Put your feet up, at least,” he fluffed another pillow for her. “I hope the boy got you a cab and didn’t make you walk the entire way.”

“Raoul was a gentleman,” she laughed a little, but put her feet up anyway. “I’m quite fine, Erik.”

But he was consumed in sorting his papers on the table and barely heard her. She assumed he was lost to his work for a little while, so she closed her eyes - it had been a very long day, and she could still hear the smooth rhythm of the rain tapping on the roof. 

He did, however, hear the knock on the door, and he answered it. Instead of letting the maid in, he simply took the trays from her and closed the door with his foot. He brought them over to the table he had recently cleared, and Christine stirred from her little nap, getting up and joining him at the table. 

Along with dinner, there was the daily newspaper, something he had requested be brought up to him each night. A small headline caught his eye - _New Prima Donna Gone Missing_ \- and with a sinking heart he turned to the page indicated. 

Christine was quiet as she cut into her steak, the only sounds in the room were that of her knife against the plate and the rustling of Erik’s paper which he held with trembling hands. 

_The debut of a new opera at the Populaire on Sunday night was quite a shock to guests. Due to unusual circumstances the usual prima donna of the stage, La Carlotta, was unwell, and the role was played instead by her understudy, a young and - until now - unheard of performer by the name of Christine Daaé. Mlle Daaé wowed the audience with her unparalleled skill and showed enormous talent in her acting, leaving all who saw her clamoring for more. Whether or not she will be able to provide this, however, remains to be seen - the young star promptly went missing immediately after the performance and none have seen or heard from her since. Eyewitnesses report that she ran into the street in a hysterical fit of tears, and some even say she was possibly last seen in the company of the Vicomte de Chagny. The opera is scheduled for another performance this week, and though the managers of the opera house assured us that the performance would still occur, they would not comment on who would be singing that night._

Erik put the paper down and stared at Christine as she took small bites of her dinner. Reading those words had been like a punch in the gut. She hadn’t mentioned any of what he’d just read... His supposed unselfish gesture had been rather selfish after all, it seemed. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your big debut, Christine,” he said quietly. “I must have really spoiled everything.”

She glanced up at him, pausing in her bite, before letting her eyes slide away from him, and gave a little shrug. She said nothing. 

He sighed and began to cut his own steak, blinking back tears as he thought about what he’d just read. 

“I stayed for your whole performance, you know,” he said finally. “I didn’t leave after I wrote the note during intermission... I stayed and watched you to the very end.”

She looked surprised. 

“Thank you,” she said genuinely. “That- that means a lot to me, Erik.”

“The newspaper thinks you’re missing,” he said awkwardly. 

She wrinkled her nose. 

“So? I’m clearly not.”

“People will talk-“

“Let them,” she waved a hand. “Let the ballet rats say the Ghost kidnapped me, for all I care. All I care about is that _you_ aren’t missing.”

“I won’t go missing again, Christine,” he said quietly. 

“I should hope not...”

“It was... a mistake that shall not be repeated. I may not be clever when it comes to relationships,” he smiled a little wryly. “But I _am_ a fast learner.”

“Is that so?” her lips twitched into a grin. 

“Oh, quite. Erik has learned an important lesson, one he won’t forget, I promise you.”

“Has he learned how much his wife loves him?”

He paused a moment, studying her. 

“Of course. He was quite the fool over all this.”

She looked down at her plate. 

“We are all fools in love, or so I’ve heard it said,” she answered. 

He chuckled. 

She smiled a little, some color coming coming into her cheeks. 

“I know it probably sounds silly... But I’m rather pleased with one thing about all this.”

“Mm?”

“I’m- well, I’m actually glad that our-“ she ducked her head shyly. “Our _first time_ won’t be in your mother’s bed...”

He nearly dropped his fork in shock. 

“Our what now?”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow a little. Was he really going to make her spell it out?

“Our... you know,” her face felt warm. “As husband and wife... Together.”

He fidgeted nervously. Did she really intend, then-? He had thought that when she had pulled away earlier, she had simply meant ‘no’, but had she really only meant ‘not right now’? Was she going to-? _Tonight_? He thought, perhaps, that she might have wanted to wait a while - a week or so maybe, just to make sure he wouldn’t run off again. Or maybe that was just it - maybe she was eager to fully consummate the marriage because she thought he’d be less likely to leave her after that. 

He felt conflicted. Obviously he wanted her, but- he didn’t want her to do that because she felt she _had_ to. Except- except he knew she’d go through with it, regardless. If she felt it was expected of her, that _he_ expected it of her, that it would cement their marriage and reassure him - she would do that, even if she wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about it. Would she end up hating him, if he made her do that?

He swallowed hard, picking at the food on his plate. Even if she really did want to, there were other considerations to think about. He had fantasized about it for so long, but now faced with reality of it happening, he was actually quite flustered. It wouldn’t matter much if all the lights were out - she would be able to feel the scars even if she couldn’t see them - he’d have to keep his clothing on, or at least as much of it as he could. Would she object to that? Would she be repulsed if she saw? How could she see what was there and still look at him with love? He was hideous. He had, shamefully, imagined how she might look at him while in the throes of ecstasy, but it was just that - imagination. Not reality. She might tolerate his touches and bear his advances, but she’d never stare into his eyes with pure bliss as he made love to her. 

Christine noted the way he frowned just slightly at his plate, how deep in thought he seemed to be. Had she said something wrong? Had she been wrong in assuming that they would have a normal marriage, with normal... activities? She’d heard the girls whisper and giggle about older patrons who weren’t able to _engage_ anymore - was that the case here? What if she was embarrassing him, what if he couldn’t- but no, she had _felt_ it against her before, that couldn’t be the problem here. 

Her own brow knit a little at his continued silence. What if he thought her too forward? Did he think her vulgar to mention such things? She desperately hoped not. She knew it wasn’t very proper, but she didn’t want to be bound by society and it’s dictations - especially not when it was just her and Erik. Why shouldn’t they be able to talk about those kinds of things? They were married! But maybe he didn’t share the same view...

She blinked back the sting in the corner of her eyes, and took a sip of her wine. 

“I’m surprised you ordered wine tonight,” she said, trying a smile. “You’re usually so strict about things that could affect my voice. Don’t tell me my teacher is getting lax about his rules?”

He looked up, surprised to be pulled out of his thoughts. 

“It’s a special occasion, Christine,” he explained. “It’s alright.”

He took a long pause. 

“You- you still wish me teach you?”

“Of course! That doesn’t have to change now that you’re my husband too, does it?”

“No, not at all.”

“So,” she took another sip. “Is the special occasion my debut, our wedding, or my having found your hiding place?”

“All three,” he supplied. 

“And just how much wine will my teacher let me have, hmm?” she asked with a grin. 

Erik looked away, pained. 

“You may have as much as you think you need to get through tonight, Christine,” he replied softly. 

She set her wine glass down, her grin fading. _Get through_-? Oh, this poor man. She had only meant a joke - Erik had always been strict about not allowing her too much alcohol. Wanting - or needing - to be drunk in order to spend the night with him had absolutely nothing to do with it. She pushed the glass away from her plate and silently vowed to not drink from it again that evening, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. 

The stray idea floated through her head that perhaps his deformity wasn’t limited to the side of his face. Was there an actual reason he seemed to think she wouldn’t enjoy tonight, or was he simply being his usual angsty self? She set her lips in a firm line, her mind already made up. She wouldn’t run, not this time, even if she saw that the rest of him wasn’t very pleasant. It wouldn’t matter, not really - she still loved him, and she’d show him that. Besides, she’d seen his bare arms up his elbows, and some of his chest before... She knew that _all_ of him couldn’t look so very strange. She studied him now as he focused on his food and whatever he was brooding over, and she tried to imagine what he’d look like if his face was symmetrical and he didn’t need the mask. What he could have accomplished in life if only he looked like that...

She knew he’d never really understand or even believe it even if she told him, but he really was handsome - at least she thought so. There were so very many things that should have negated that - his tallness bordered on awkward, he was awfully thin, apparently bald, his eyes very nearly glowed with their strange color, _the mask_ \- but somehow they all canceled each other out and combined to create a person that she found terribly attractive. She could almost laugh out loud at the idea that anything other than simple _want_ was leading her to take the actions she most certainly intended on taking that night. There was, after all, a reason she had picked him over Raoul. Of course she would understand if he didn’t feel up to doing very much or even anything at all that evening, and she didn’t want to push him into something, but she felt she’d be secretly disappointed if nothing happened between them - she had been envisioning this night for longer than she cared to admit. 

He finished his dinner before she did, ending it by downing another half a glass of wine in one go. He noticed with curiosity that she really hadn’t had more than a single glass, which was hardly more than he usually let her drink. Was she frightened he might get upset with her if she had more? He _had_ offered, though. Maybe she wanted a clear head so she could object quicker if he should try something she found unsavory. 

He quickly forgot all musings of what her intentions with her wine were as he became consumed once more with thoughts of later that evening and what might occur. 

They were married. They had tangible proof they were married. Surely she had known what a marriage entailed. She seemed aware enough of what was coming, judging by her little comments made with an adorable blushing face. She always wanted to do what was right, the sweet dear. If she thought it only right that they should- on their wedding night, well, she would probably do it and offer herself to him despite her secret reservations about it. 

He felt as if this evening were a test set before him, a test of what kind of man he was. The part that scared him the most was that he didn’t even know what he would he do. Was he to assume that he could what he pleased with her now? She _had_ signed herself over to him. No one would fault him. If she was nervous or frightened, or decided at the last minute that she’d rather not - was he to stop, or would he continue? What did most husbands do in that case? He could make her see it through, and perhaps she’d cease to be frightened after it was over... He thought back to the bawdy talk he’d often heard from patrons in hallways and backstage. It didn’t seem unheard of... He wanted her so very badly. He had kept such a tight control over himself ever since realizing his feelings for her - would that control slip now that they were married? He didn’t know, and he was afraid he wouldn’t know until actually presented with the situation. 

He was pulled out of his ruminations by a question she posed meekly. 

“Do you have any books?” Christine asked as soon as she was finished with her dinner. 

Erik looked surprised but nodded. 

“One or two, yes,” he rose to find them. 

He brought them to her and she looked down, bashful. 

“Would you read one to to me?” she asked softly, twisting her hands together. 

“Of course, my dear.”

He sat down on one end of the couch, and she settled herself on the other end, facing him with her legs tucked underneath of her. 

The book he chose was a volume of poetry, one he had bought earlier that day on a whim as he had made his way to the office, and it was after three poems that Christine suddenly changed how she was sitting, moving from her end of the couch and scooting to sit next to him instead, leaning against his side and resting her head on his shoulder. Erik stuttered and paused, but Christine stayed still and he picked up where he left off. 

It was a terribly curious thing, she thought, that being close to him could be both a source of comfort and of anxiety at the same time. She stole a glance up at him as he read. Would things be very different between them, after? Would they be just the same always, only closer? She closed her eyes. She knew better than to think the first time - or even the first few times - would be wonderful, and she wished they could somehow skip all of this and go right to the part where they were both comfortable with it all and knew what the other liked. 

Her stomach felt like it was full of butterflies, but not in an enjoyable way. She wanted to do so much more than listen to him read, but she also wanted to wait until her dinner had more time to settle in her stomach - she knew that if she attempted too much so soon after dinner when she felt this nervous, she was liable to vomit - and Erik would be absolutely crushed if _that_ was her reaction to anything that happened tonight. 

They stayed like that for a while, Christine trying to steady her nerves as she listened to Erik bring each poem to life, and Erik finding respite from the thoughts that hounded him by losing himself in the words on the pages. 

Finally he paused and glanced at the clock. Christine hadn’t moved since five poems ago - was she asleep? 

“Are you tired, my Christine? Do you wish to go to bed yet?”

Words innocently spoken, with another meaning just under the surface. 

She opened her eyes. 

“No, I’m not tired right now. I don’t think I’ll start getting ready for bed another hour, at least.”

He hesitated a moment. 

“Do you mind very terribly, then, if I do a little work until then? Unless- I’ll keep reading if you want me to-“ he rushed to add. 

“No, that’s all right - I don’t mind. Thank you for reading to me.”

He placed the book down on the couch and turned towards her. She smiled sweetly at him, and he reached out a hand to cup her cheek. 

“I’ll never leave you again, Christine,” he whispered solemnly. 

“I know you won’t,” she whispered in reply. 

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead before he stood and made his way to the table, looking for the blueprint that he had been working on earlier in the office before he had left. 

She picked up the book he had left behind and tried to read a little longer, but the words just didn’t hold the same appeal when they weren’t spoken in his voice. She glanced up every now and then to watch as he sketched future houses with his clever hands. 

Everything seemed so calm now, on the surface. She had found him, they had talked it through, and they were finally as they should have been - together, married, happy and peaceful as they spent the remainder of the evening together. Even her nerves had quieted. She let her eyes close as she took a deep breath. This was what she had wanted for so long. All was right with the world. 

She gave up on the book, and, after watching him for a while as he was absorbed in his work, she finally decided to begin to get ready for bed. 

She stood up from the couch. 

Erik’s hand stilled and his gaze, which had been fixed on his paper, was suddenly trained on her and her alone. 

Her breath caught in her throat. Those amber eyes that almost seemed to glow were focused on her so intently, like a cat watching a mouse that had finally appeared out of its hiding place after assuming that the cat was not paying any attention to it. 

“I’m just- I was just going to dress for bed,” she stuttered a little breathlessly. 

He nodded, and turned back to his work, but she could still tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye. 

She grabbed her bag and scurried to the bathroom, her nerves coming back in full force. 

Erik let out an exhale and covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t focus on his work any longer - he felt he couldn’t focus on _anything_ any longer. Was this truly about to happen? 

Behind the closed bathroom door Christine took a shaky breath. She stared herself down in the mirror. Why was this so nerve wracking for her? She almost wished they’d simply gotten it over with that night in the carriage, when their emotions had carried them away. 

She huffed. It was silly to be nervous! She wanted this! She knew Erik wouldn’t hurt her, not if he could help it. There wasn’t anyone she would rather this with. But still, she worried. 

She pulled her nightdress out of her bag, her heart sinking a little. She hadn’t been thinking ahead when she’d packed, certainly hadn’t been anticipating _this_ in any way - she’d only packed a single nightdress, her most comfortable one. It was rather worn, and more than modest. Certainly not something a bride wore on her wedding night. 

She fretted as she anxiously searched the little bathroom for anything that she might use to freshen up - she found some soap, and a pitcher for water. She dearly wished she had brought some perfume or something. It was as she was washing her face that she was finally able to put her finger on what was bothering her - _she was afraid of disappointing Erik somehow_. 

She stared at her face in the mirror, eyes wide, water dripping down into the sink basin. Oh, the thought was nearly too horrible to contemplate! She dried her face, frowning, and changed into her nightdress, throwing her dressing gown over herself. She wasn’t naive on these matters, she’d done her share of listening and had asked questions here and there - but she’d never been in such a situation herself. What if she did something he didn’t like? What if she failed to do something vital? 

What if she didn’t live up to his expectations?

She shook out the layers of her skirt, biting her lip. She hoped she looked pleasing to him. She pulled her hairpins out and brushed her fingers through her curls, trying to arrange them in an attractive manner. Was she just supposed to- to walk out there and announce that she was ready? Her cheeks turned pink at the thought of it. 

For a brief moment she was gripped by the fear she’d always held when faced with this. She’d known girls who had gotten pregnant from their first time. She’d also known plenty of girls who had never gotten pregnant at all, even after years of doing very many things. She tried to push the thought from her mind. It was a risk, but she was willing to take it. They would cross that bridge together, if they came to it. 

She took a step back from the mirror, making a conscious effort to relax her muscles. This was _Erik_. Erik, who loved her more than anything. Erik, who knew all of her secrets. Erik, who never thought less of her no matter how badly she messed up in a lesson or audition. How could she ever think he’d be disappointed in her? 

With a slightly shaking hand, she opened the door and exited the bathroom.


	27. Chapter 27

Erik sat at the table, holding the newspaper up in front of him but unable to read a single word of it no matter how he stared at it. Christine was going to come out of the bathroom soon and when she did-

Christine pulled at her dressing gown as she exited the bathroom. She clutched at the neckline of it, pulling it closer together as she made her way to stand in front of the fireplace. She felt unaccountably shy, especially knowing that Erik had seen her in her nightdress before. But she knew, also, that he was likely about to see her in even less. 

Erik tried not to stare as she left the bathroom and went to stand in front of the fireplace, but he couldn’t help it. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her golden hair had been unpinned, and the white of the lace and silk dressing gown seemed to glow in the firelight. 

She didn’t look at him as she made her way to stand before the little fire, but she could feel his eyes on her as he stared surreptitiously at her over the top of the newspaper he was pretending to read. She stood there a moment, wrapping her arms around herself, not certain how to proceed. She dearly hoped that he would bridge the distance between them somehow, that she wouldn’t have to be the one to initiate this, even though she knew he was as new to this as she was. 

He swallowed hard. He knew that husbands had a certain right, knew that she knew that as well - by law, she was now his and could not refuse him. But looking at her now, standing there in the light of the fire, in her virginal dressing gown on their wedding night, he still couldn’t see her as anything less than that same independent young woman with her own thoughts and opinions and feelings that she had been for all the years that he’d known her - it would have been wrong to force her back then, and it would still be wrong to demand something of her that she didn’t want to give now, regardless of what a few signatures on a piece of paper said. He did want that shared intimacy with her desperately, but more than anything he wanted her to want it too - he found, suddenly, that the thought of having her while she was still scared and uncertain was horrifically off-putting. 

She looked so innocent and breakable, illuminated by the flames, like a little porcelain doll, but he knew that the facade of fragility belied a deep inner strength and a fierceness of will. His chest ached with the love he felt for her. 

She was trembling. Was she frightened? That would never do. He rose from his chair and walked over to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her arms just below her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. 

“Christine,” he murmured to her. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. It’s alright.”

He placed a chaste kiss on the side of her cheek. He had his answer - he had passed his test. He would let her take the lead in this, let her set the tone and the rules. 

She turned around and threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself close to him and breathing a sigh of relief and smiling - it was an unconventional first move, but it was one all the same - and he had made it - and she could work with this. He let his arms snake around her waist, hugging her. 

“I do want to, I want to very much...” she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his neck before burying her face in his chest. “I’m just a little nervous.”

He was quiet a moment as he simply pet her long hair and let her lean against him. 

“Would you like to hear a secret, Christine?” he whispered, and she pulled away just enough to look up at him, her eyes big and bright, and she nodded. 

“I’m quite nervous myself,” he confided in her, a wry smile tugging at his lips, and Christine could see the vague panic that lurked in the corner of his eyes. 

It wasn’t a particularly funny sentiment, but Christine couldn’t stop the smirk and then the giggles that began to bubble up in her. 

His own dark chuckle rang out and Christine, relieved that he didn’t take offense to her giggling, laughed all the harder. He nuzzled his grinning face into her hair, and as he felt the tension in her body slowly slip away, his own tight shoulders began to relax as well. 

What a pair they both made, thought Christine. When finally the thing that they had both chased and fought for and dreamed about for so long was right within their grasp, they were both too nervous to actually reach out and take it. 

Still snickering, he tugged her towards the couch where they both sat down. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, waiting for the last of her giggles to die down before she sighed. She still had a hint of trepidation but she realized the only way past it was through it. She looked up at her husband, who was gazing at her tenderly. She was struck by how much she loved this man. 

She reached up and slowly removed his mask, placing it on the table next to them. Her eyes flickered over the two sides of his face, and for a brief moment all the anxiety he had been feeling came rushing back stronger than ever. But she simply leaned up to him and kissed the scarred side of his face, and his fear began to fade. He pulled her close and kissed her lips, deepening it after a moment. He still wasn’t certain he was doing it right. He had, after all, never kissed anyone before Christine, and even then it had only been a small handful of occasions. If he was somehow going about it wrong, dear Christine was being quite gracious about it. He knew that she had kissed other people, had kissed _the boy_ on numerous occasions, and the thought that she might compare him to Raoul made him nervous, especially since he was certain that the boy had more experience. 

Experience. It was an odd dichotomy decreed by society that it was acceptable for the man to have _experience_ in the joys of the flesh before marriage, but that the woman should not. In that moment, Erik wished that he were more knowledgeable in the subject that was set before them - he knew _enough_, of course, but book knowledge was not the same as actual experience, and more than anything he wanted to be able to make it enjoyable for her. He suspected that the limit of her experience ended with kissing, but if it didn’t, he hoped at least that she could tell him how to do what she liked. 

She let her hands wander up to his face as they kissed, gingerly touching the deformed side. He flinched away and pulled back. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” he rushed to reassure her. “I just- wasn’t expecting it.”

She nodded a little, and he reached for her hand, bringing up to his face. He kissed her palm before placing it on his cheek once more, and she let her thumb graze the ridged skin there. Her eyes flickered up to his hair - his wig. She wanted so badly for him to take it off, for him to be able to trust her with everything about himself, but she didn’t want to push him or make him uncomfortable. Perhaps one day she’d be able to remove the wig too, but for now just being able to take his mask off was a big step for him. She rose up to her knees and in a moment of sudden boldness she straddled his thighs, leaning in to kiss the smooth side of his face while her hand still caressed the opposite side. 

Her own face felt terribly hot, a symptom of the embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm her, a byproduct of the two warring emotions in her. She _wanted_ this, _wanted_ Erik so badly, but some unwelcome little voice was telling her that she was behaving a like tart - proper women waited till they were in bed and then _tolerated_ their husband’s attentions, they didn’t initiate marital encounters and they certainly didn’t sit across his legs on the couch and attempt to undress each other. She had been at that opera house too long, the little voice told her, and now she was acting like a woman of ill repute. 

She paused and pulled back from Erik. The look she saw there in his eyes, the look of sheer love muddled with consuming lust, reminded her that she had never been a proper woman - and he loved her anyway, loved her _because_ of who she was. Christine Daaé had spent a lifetime not caring if she was proper or not, and now was certainly not the time to start. 

She pushed the little voice that bid her feel ashamed away, and took Erik’s hand that had been at her waist and led it instead to the sash of her dressing gown, looking at him meaningfully. 

His breath caught in his throat, and he pulled on one end of the sash, untying the loose bow it was wrapped in before gently pushing the dressing gown from her shoulders and letting it fall to the cushions of the couch. He bit back a groan as he did so, despite the fact that the action of removing her dressing gown was more ceremonial than actually revealing - the night gown she was wearing had billowy long sleeves and a neckline that was cut higher than some of her day dresses. Still, it was a symbolic moment, and he leaned in to kiss her again while he explored her body with cautious but curious hands. 

Her heart was racing at his touches, and she thought it only fair to return the favor. She unbuttoned his vest, which he then shrugged off, but when she reached for the buttons of his shirt, one of his hands suddenly grasped both of hers, stopping her from continuing. 

“Christine,” he warned. “I- I am not a handsome man, you know.”

She didn’t know how to respond - saying _I know_ seemed terribly rude, but she knew he wouldn’t accept any disagreement on that topic. She lowered her eyes. 

“I wish to see you, husband, but...” she looked back up at his anxious face. “But if you prefer that I don’t, it’s alright, Erik.”

He swallowed hard and let his hand drop from hers. 

“Tell me,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You can do anything like, sweet, but- just tell me if you would prefer that I put the shirt back on, after- after you see.”

She nodded and continued to unbutton it, sliding it off of his shoulders with no help from him. He was awfully bony, something she had already guessed at from the feel of him through his clothes. Still, she thought that it wasn’t as bad as his face, and if she was used to that she could easily get used to this. 

He closed his eyes and held his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable gasp of shock and revulsion that was coming, preparing to pull his shirt back on as quickly as he could. He was certain she would ask. If she wasn’t repulsed by his scrawniness, she was surely be disgusted by his scars. She might not even want to continue at all. It had, perhaps, taken her years to get used to his face - would it likewise take her just as long to grow accustomed to the rest of him?

She ran a hand over his chest and watched how he shivered. He was chilly, but not nearly as much as she would have thought, and she wondered if it was their current activities that were warming him up. She noticed a number of scars on his chest and abdomen, some of them that looked rather deep, and she remembered his words to her about his previous line of work. But it wasn’t until she reached her hands around to his shoulders and back that her eyes widened and she had to stifle a gasp - there were scars here, long ones, too many to count, deeper and wider than those on the front of him. What kind of life had he known? She ran her fingers softly over them, knowing that this was a conversation they should have, but knowing that it definitely was not a conversation for tonight. She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. 

“I love you, Erik,” she murmured against his skin. 

He held her tightly, burying his face in her neck. 

“Oh, _Christine_,” his trembling voice sounded on the verge of tears, and she realized that the evening was in danger of going in a direction that neither of them wanted. 

She sacrificed the last little bit of modesty she had been trying to retain and scooted her hips, which had been closer to his knees, closer to his own hips - although still not _touching_, so perhaps she still had some modesty left after all. She took one of his hands and placed it once more on her bosom, encouraging his touch. 

Her plan of distraction seemed to work. After a few moments he was able to collect himself and focus on the present moment. 

“Christine,” he said in a low voice between kisses to her neck. “Did you know that you are the most wonderful woman in the world?”

“Well,” she said with a smile, wriggling just a little in his grip. “I did have a suspicion that this might be the case.”

She could feel him grinning at her words as he continued to trail kisses across her skin. 

“After all,” she went on. “How else could an Angel fall in love with me?”

He paused a moment before redoubling his efforts, too overcome for words. 

She let her eyes flutter shut, becoming lost in the sensations. His hand that had been roaming her back suddenly went lower, cupping her bottom before giving it a squeeze. 

The sheer unexpectedness of it, along with the nervousness of what she knew was drawing ever closer, caused her to giggle. 

Erik swiftly removed his hand, pulling back and looking away from her. A fierce blush started on his face. 

“What’s funny?” he mumbled. 

Was he not supposed to touch her there? Had he broken some rule of etiquette that he wasn’t aware of? He hadn’t thought it inappropriate, considering they were married, he had never read any word of caution regarding that in any of the books he had studied, but perhaps Christine knew something that he didn’t. 

His schoolboy awkwardness and her own feelings about being touched in a place no one ever had before only compounded the strange hilarity she found in the situation, but she knew that if she kept laughing he was going to develop a complex. 

She reached out for his shoulders, shaking him a little until he looked at her again. The blush that had spread across his face was slowly creeping down his neck onto his chest, and she smiled fondly at him. How could she explain to him that she found the thought of where they had started off versus where they had ended up so farfetched that it was almost hilarious? Her teenage self would have been shocked speechless to hear that she would indeed be visited by the Angel of Music who would turn out to be a man that she married some years after that. And how would Erik have ever reacted to learn that he would craft the voice of a young woman who would grow to be his wife and not just his student? 

“Life is so absurd, isn’t it? That’s what’s funny. And I’m so happy to be here with you tonight like this.”

He seemed to accept her words, thought it did little to ease his blush. He wanted to return his hand to where it had been moments before, but he felt too shy to do so. He decided to play it safe and keep them to places that hadn’t caused her to burst out in laughter. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about his intimate touches being the thing that reminded her of how absurd life was, but he knew that she loved him, so he supposed that was all that really mattered. 

She leaned forward again and kissed him. He lingered there a moment in that kiss - kissing her felt like heaven, but he didn’t want to spend the night only kissing. He gently eased her back to lay on the couch. 

Her heart jumped to her throat - this was it. She squeezed handfuls of the blanket underneath of her in her fists, squirming a little at the uncomfortable position it put her legs in. He noticed her discomfort and reached under her knees to pull her legs up, letting them stretch out on either side of him, far more comfortable than how they had been folded underneath of her. He ran his hands soothingly up and down her legs, marveling at the feel of them under his hands. He glanced up at her, realizing that though her legs were no longer being bent awkwardly, she still looked rather uncomfortable. Her hands still twisted in the blanket, and she gazed up at him with a certain anxiety across her face, though he could also read the trust that was plainly written there too. 

It would hurt, she knew it would, but she still wanted him despite that. She swallowed hard and kept her eyes on his face, too shy to look lower despite a fierce curiosity to do so. But Erik made no move to unbutton his trousers or to lean over her, he simply sat for moment, continuing his soft touches on her lower legs. 

“Christine,” he asked quietly as he took in her reactions. “Is this your first time?”

“Yes,” she whispered. 

She didn’t have to ask him the same question. 

“Oh, it’ll be alright, love,” he told her, trying to make his words carry a conviction that he himself did not possess. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he assured her, while trying to press down his own myriad fears. 

“I know,” she nodded. “I trust you.”

And he knew that she did - he could see it in how she looked up at him, in how she had let him lower her to the couch, how she made no attempt to close her legs or move away from him, and he was overwhelmed by a rush of love for her. 

He lifted up one of her legs and brought her foot to his lips, pressing kisses to the arch of her foot and her delicate ankle bone. Her leg twitched at the sensation, and she squirmed in delight, biting the back of her finger to keep from laughing again. He smiled at her reaction, at how her toes curled, how her billowing, ruffled layers and layers of skirt rustled and slipped down just a little to show a hint of her thighs as she wiggled. 

“I love you so much, Christine,” he murmured against her ankle before letting it carefully come to rest on his lap, his hand still massaging her foot. 

“I love you too, Erik.”

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you, sweet, won’t you?” he asked anxiously. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said, her heart pounding as he shifted forwards, bracing himself with his hands on either side of her head as he kissed the side of her face. “I’ll tell you.”

“You can tell me to stop, Christine,” he whispered next to her ear, and she shivered. “You can tell me to stop at any point, and I will, you know that, right?”

She nodded, the only response she could formulate now that her words had run dry, and reached her hands up to his shoulders. He pressed a little closer to her on his last kiss then suddenly pulled away, and she closed her eyes tightly. For a brief moment she was convinced he was going to take her right then and there, but to her surprise when she next felt his touch, he was scooping her up off the couch. 

Her eyes flew open as he picked her up, one arm under her knees and one across her back as he lifted her up and held her close. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest that he was certain had nothing to do with tender feelings and he closed his eyes a moment, trying to catch his breath. Not here! Not now! Please - don’t let this happen tonight! He opened his eyes, the feeling passing. There would be time enough later on to deal with his health problems, could he not just have this one night without something happening to ruin it for either of them? 

Christine didn’t seem to notice his slight pause, instead busy with nuzzling against his throat, and he placed a kiss against her hair. Her little hands were clasped behind his neck, and his chest pain was swiftly fading from memory. 

He carried her to the bedroom, pulling back the blankets and depositing her on the bed, and he was about to join her when she looked up at him, a little dismayed. 

“Oh, I don’t like the dark-“ she nearly pouted. 

He paused. The room was entirely dark except for the sliver of light that poured in from the open door. He pressed one last kiss to her hand before going to the wall and flipping the light switch, suddenly flooding the room with electric light. In a panic he turned it off once more - he didn’t want Christine to see him that clearly! He glanced back at her, trying to ascertain what to do. 

“Do you- do you want-“ he gestured to the light switch again. 

She shook her head vigorously. She was not overeager to be seen in the harsh, unforgiving lighting, either. 

He ran a hand through his wig, muttering a curse on this hateful new technology - the electric lights couldn’t be dimmed like gas lamps, and it annoyed him to no end. He swiftly walked over to window and pulled back the curtains just a bit. There was no moon out that night, but the soft glow of the electric street lamp outside illuminated the room just enough to ease her worries. 

“Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you Erik,” she reached her arms out for him. 

“Anything for you, Christine,” he murmured as he leaned over her, nuzzling his face against hers. 

“Erik,” she asked in between kisses. “Your heart-?”

She placed a hand over his chest as she looked at him questioningly. He paused, assessing it - his heart _was_ beating faster, but it was steady and even and he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. How emotional it made him, to know that even in the midst of something that contained so very much for her to worry over for her own self, that her concern was still turned towards him. 

“I feel just fine, sweet, I’m okay.”

She tried to tug him down to the bed, but he resisted, instead pulling her up to a sitting position in his arms, kissing her. He leaned forward, one knee resting on the edge of the bed, their kisses steadily turning from sweet to passionate. He let a hand trail from her shoulder to her back and lower, skirting across her thigh and sneaking underneath of the hem of her nightdress. He broke the kiss and pulled back to look at her face, seeking her continued consent. She nodded, and he surged forward to kiss her again. 

Both of his hands were trembling with anticipation and lust as he bundled her nightdress up. Unable to focus on more than one task, he stopped kissing her, and she squirmed to try and help him in his quest to remove her clothing. 

With her assistance he pulled her nightdress up over her head. 

This was it - he was so close to finally seeing her - no more wondering about what she looked like, at last she’d be bared to his eyes and he could see- 

Her chemise. 

His face fell. What the devil was this? This wasn’t what he wanted to see! 

He sat her up further on the bed and joined her, kneeling in front of her, frowning in concentration. He balled up her discarded nightdress and tossed it on the floor. 

“Why do you wear so many damn layers?” he growled, frustrated, and she giggled. 

“I wear what society demands of me, Angel,” she leaned back against the pillows.

“From now on you’ll only wear what _I_ demand of you,” he reached forward and fumbled with tiny buttons on the front of the garment - who could even handle such microscopic buttons?

“Oh? Is that so?” she teased. 

He paused in his quest, meeting her eye. 

“I mean, I shall make _suggestions_, my dear, you do not _have_ to follow them,” he allowed. 

His shaking hands couldn’t make heads or tails of the infuriating little buttons, and he reached down by her thighs to bunch up the fabric instead, drawing it quickly up over her head as she shrieked with delight. He discarded it likewise, throwing it behind him. 

“_Christine-_”

He ran his hands up the sides of her body, and then lightly down the front, marveling at the sight of her. She noted, distantly, as she bit the back of her own finger to keep from giggling as he touched her in ticklish areas, that his hands were no longer cold. 

He felt he could spend forever looking at her perfect form, but there was a very pressing matter to attend to in that moment. His hands fumbled with the laces on his trousers, and Christine fidgeted, growing slightly nervous. He made short work of the remainder of his own clothing, and by the time Christine had actually gathered enough courage to _look_, she didn’t get to see anything because he was already leaning over top of her, kissing her in a nearly frantic manner, his hands eagerly exploring her. 

In all of the time Christine had know Erik, she had heard his voice in very many different scenarios - firmly reprimanding her as her Angel, high and falsetto at times, teasing and good-natured, huffy and offended, dark and deep and seductive, whining and complaining, pleased and tender, and of course his commonplace voice as he discussed regular matters. She’d heard him talk and whisper and shout, hum and whistle and sing in a great range, imitate a vast array of mutual acquaintances with stunning accuracy and throw his voice - but never had she heard him make quite the type of noises as he was currently making and it rather embarrassed her to hear them, especially when her own name was being moaned in between them. But she supposed it was only reasonable, really - she had never made these little squeaks and hums herself, either. 

His kisses trailed to the side of her neck as he shifted his position, and she bit her lip to stifle the gasp as at last the long awaited moment finally happened. 

She turned her head to the side, hoping he wouldn’t notice how she scrunched her eyes shut - she didn’t want him to stop, but she knew he would if he thought she was in pain. She let out a long breath through her nose as she fisted her hands in the sheets, trying to not tense her muscles anymore than they already were, trying to focus on the feeling of him kissing her neck and not what was happening elsewhere. It wasn’t terribly painful, not really, but it wasn’t pleasant either. She comforted herself with the thought that surely once she became accustomed to the feeling it would start to feel goo-

With one last inelegant sound, Erik collapsed on top of Christine, pressing her into the mattress. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at the ceiling, confused and surprised. Was- was that it? It was over, just like that? 

Erik didn’t move from where he lay, his face buried in the junction of her neck and shoulder, too overwhelmed and embarrassed to move. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but he had certainly hoped for something more than _that_. Six years of love summed up in less than half a minute. 

Christine chewed on her lip. He was awfully heavy for someone so thin, and if he didn’t move on his own soon, she was going to have to push him off, but she really didn’t want to do that lest he view it as rejection. 

He thought to himself that perhaps if he never got up, he’d never have to face her and the disappointment he was certain she felt. 

His panting breaths against her neck were starting to sound as though they bordered on crying. She needed to say or do something, but what? She reached a hand up and placed it on his back, running it up and down in a soothing manner. Really, what did one even say in a situation like this? She had no clue, but surely she couldn’t go too wrong with-

“It’s alright, Erik,” she murmured. 

He whimpered what sounded like an apology and nodded but didn’t move beyond that. 

She thought back to the many conversations she’d listened to from the other ballet rats, all retold with flushed faces and giggles. She’d never partaken in the activities her friends had indulged in, but she had certainly been interested in what they’d had to say afterwards. She had known that the first time for the woman wouldn’t necessarily be _pleasant_ or even _enjoyable_ in the ways they all whispered about, but she had never stopped to consider what a man’s first time might be like. Unpolished, perhaps. Clumsy, yes. A little uncertain of what, exactly, to do - these were all logical expectations. But it had somehow escaped her that he might be finished so quickly. She hadn’t been expecting hours of ardent passion, but _really_ \- she’d barely even had a chance to get used to the feeling of him there! 

She squirmed underneath of him, a difficult thing to do while he was pinning her to the bed. She turned her head to kiss the hair of his wig, and then shoved playfully at his shoulder. 

“Erik,” she said a little breathlessly (he was crushing her lungs) but lightly. “You’re heavy!”

He quickly rolled off of her, making her wince, which he luckily didn’t see because he covered his face with both of his hands as he lay on his back. 

She felt relief that she was finally able to draw a full breath, and she rolled to her side to look at him, trying to ignore the strange feelings between her legs that bordered on uncomfortable. 

She was feeling rather shy herself, not used to experiencing any of the things that had just happened, but she knew that _both_ of them couldn’t simply let shyness overtake them, not now, so she took it upon herself to be the one to push ahead. She would have liked to have been the one to be held and petted after such a thing, but after all, how many times had he soothed and comforted and relaxed her before a performance or an audition that she was nervous about? She didn’t mind having to be the brave one right now. For someone who had spent the majority of his life making a living from intimidating and frightening others, he really was rather timid. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” she said gently, tugging on his wrist to try and uncover his face. “How can I kiss you if your face is covered, hmm?”

He let her pull one hand from his face, and she leaned in to press kisses to the side of his lips and his cheek, but he didn’t move or even open his eyes. He simultaneously wanted to pull her close and never let her go but also to hide away from her forever in some dark corner where she’d never find him. He had never felt so vulnerable and awkward in his entire life as he did in that moment. Had he really just-? With her? 

Elation mixed with embarrassment - to finally be one with _Christine_\- except- he had never spent himself so quickly before when he had used his hands, and he was mortified by what had just happened. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that Christine Daaé felt far more exquisite than his hand ever could, but that did nothing to ease the shame and embarrassment of the situation. How long had he fantasized about being with her like that? Only now when it had finally happened, it wasn’t quite like what he had imagined. Part of him was ecstatic that it had actually occurred, yet part of him couldn’t help but he feel he had bungled the entire thing. 

His mind started to clear a little as she continued to kiss him and caress his chest and arms, but as the embarrassment and awkwardness left him, the pervading sense of guilt didn’t. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, realizing he hadn’t even sought to make it pleasurable for her (he supposed, in his defense, that there really hadn’t been much time to do much of anything, let alone _think_ of what might make it better for her). And as if what he’d just done to her wasn’t bad enough, then he had to go lay on top of his poor little wife and practically crush her. He opened his eyes and turned towards her slightly. 

“Christine,” he whispered urgently. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t- Erik didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No,” she shook her head and nuzzled her face against him. “No, you didn’t hurt me, love.”

He gently and carefully pulled her into his embrace and whispered softly in her ear. 

“Erik would never want to hurt his Christine.”

She smiled as he kissed her forehead. 

He tentatively ran a hand down her side and over her thighs. She had let him do so much tonight, had given him such pleasure (the fact that it was so terribly short lived was his own fault entirely). It was only fair that he return the favor. 

She closed her eyes and snuggled close to him, smiling gently at how his hands caressed her skin, fingertips mapping every inch of her. He softly rolled her into her back, propping himself up on an elbow, his hand traveling further down her body. 

He felt his nervousness return. He knew, in theory, how to please a woman, but putting that knowledge into practice was another story. He wasn’t brave enough to look directly at her, his eyes instead focused on the wall behind her. He knew it would likely go smoother if simply _looked_ at what he was doing, but he also knew that he only had enough bravery to either look or to touch, so he let his hand be guided only by feel and the little noises she made. He was terrified that he might do something wrong, that he might hurt her somehow, so he was immensely grateful when she reached down and grabbed his wrist to guide him. 

Her fingernails dug into his wrist as her breathing grew heavier, but he didn’t mind - especially considering that she seemed to be enjoying his actions, judging by the sounds she was making. At last he gathered the courage to look at her face, and he discovered that she was staring into his eyes with an expression that held all the love in the world. His breath stuck in his throat, and on an impulse he leaned down to kiss her mouth, a kiss she leaned up to meet him halfway in. He was momentarily overwhelmed by it all - _Christine, looking upon him with such love_ \- that he stopped the movement of his hand, a mistake she urgently reminded him of with a tug on the wrist. 

He resumed his actions until she released his hand with a gasp and threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his chest. 

“Hold me,” she whispered breathlessly, and he readily obliged. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he did so, his mind more at ease now. Perhaps he hadn’t entirely bungled the evening. He ran his fingers through her hair and hummed a tune he made up on the spot as her breathing evened out. 

He stopped humming suddenly and shook her shoulder a little to get her attention. 

“Christine, I love you,” he said quietly but urgently and earnestly, as though it were a secret of the utmost importance. 

She chuckled a little. 

“I love you too,” her breath tickled his skin. 

“Christine is too good to her Erik,” he murmured into her hair as he held her close. “So, so good to him, to let him do such things to her... Christine is the most lovely wife in the entire world. She has given Erik more than he ever could have hoped for. He loves her so very much. He would do anything in the world for his sweet little wife...”

She blushed just a little at his flattery, but she knew he truly meant every word of it. 

“And Erik is a very good husband to Christine, too,” she said as she nuzzled against his neck. 

“Oh?” he sounded curious. 

“Oh, of course he is,” she nodded. “The best husband, I think.”

He was very still as he listened to her. 

“He’s so very kind to think of me, to think of- of my-“ her cheeks burned and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Of my pleasure, too, tonight.”

She’d heard plenty of stories huffed backstage of men who didn’t bother with that, who didn’t care whether or not their partner got any pleasure from the act as long they themselves did. 

“You’re a kind and thoughtful husband, Erik,” she glanced up him, smiling. “I’m very lucky to have you.”

He was quiet. He knew he was not a good husband. He was, perhaps, a terrible husband. But he was very new to being a husband - he was, in the grand scheme of things, still rather new at having normal relationships with other people at all - and he hoped that with a great amount of effort and courage that one day he really could be a great husband to her, that he could live up what she had just told him. 

“I am the lucky one, Christine,” he said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hm. Well, you’ll never have to find out,” she smiled. 

He wanted, for a moment, to ask if she forgave him for running off, but he couldn’t find the right words, or if he could, he couldn’t force his tongue to form them. He swallowed them down, but the silence in the room still pressed down on him. 

“Thank you,” he said rather awkwardly, and then had to live with silence that followed. 

She opened her eyes and blinked a few times, trying to suss out what, exactly, he was thanking her for. For what she had said about never having to live without her? But that was several minutes ago - had it really taken him that long to think of it? Or was it just in general - for having come after him and providing them with legal framework? For loving him? For- she wrinkled her nose to think of it - for having physical relations with him (as though she hadn’t wanted that just as much as he did!)? 

“You’re- you’re welcome?” she choked out, uncertain, but it seemed the thing to say. 

He stilled, then let go of her, rolling onto his back again and pressed his hands over face. 

She merely looked at him this time before staring up at the ceiling herself. Well, it had really happened. She pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. She felt different, but still the same. She hoped that in time she’d feel less awkward about being completely nude in front of her mentor, a feeling that was starting to creep up on her now that the haze of passion was ebbing. She thought, with vague annoyance, that she really hadn’t even seen _him_ nude, not really, not in the way that counted - she glanced pointedly over at Erik, and then lower, and her mouth turned down into a little pouting frown. She would have, at some point soon, to put them on even footing in that regard. 

Erik took a deep breath and removed his hands from his face. 

“Thank you for being such a lovely person, Christine,” he blurted out, his eloquence slowly returning. “Thank you for never giving up on me, even when you have so very many reasons to do so. Thank you for believing in me, for thinking that I can be better than what I currently am. Thank you for being you... For existing.”

She felt her eyes sting at his words. 

“Oh, Erik-“ she turned to him, blinking hard. “I don’t know what to say...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said simply. “Just- just stay with me. Stay by me side, always. And I promise I’ll do the same.”

She scooted closer to him, unable to find the words to describe how she loved him. 

“Thank you for being you, too, Erik,” she said, wiping at her eyes. 

Erik paused. 

“But I’m annoying, Christine,” he said with all seriousness, and she burst out laughing. 

“Erik! That’s okay, I still love you, no matter how annoying you might get.”

“Hm. And that is what makes you so very lovely, my dear,” he kissed the tip of her nose. 

She placed a hand on his cheek and ran it up through his wig slowly. 

“Doesn’t it itch?” she asked softly, her finger twining through that false hair and tugging gently. 

He looked at her doubtfully. 

“I do not mind,” he said. 

Her brow knit. 

“You know you can take it off... Its alright...” her hand trailed down his face again, resting there gently. 

“Not tonight,” he said quickly. “Some other time - but not tonight.”

She nodded and leaned up to kiss his jaw. He rolled to his side to face her, careful to keep the ride side of his face pressed to the pillow as much as he could so that less of his deformity showed. She sighed happily as she continued to plant kisses across his skin, and soon enough he was convinced to abandon trying to hide part of his face in favor of returning her kisses. 

She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth as they both lay there - how many times had she dreamed about this, about being able to kiss him like this and feel his bare skin under her hands? It was the culmination of all her fantasies. There would be time enough later to explore the more outlandish things she had overheard from her friends, things she had, upon hearing about them, immediately thought of trying with her teacher. For right now, _this_ was all she wanted - to simply be there with him, to rest her cheek upon his chest, to kiss his throat, to run her hands across the wiry muscles and bony joints of his slightly sweaty body, to feel him murmur sweet nothings into her hair as he ran his fingers through it, the way he he cradled the back of her head in one hand as he kissed her face, how he carefully and reverently ran his hands across her body as though even still he couldn’t touch her enough - bliss, all of it. She would search a million streets for a million days if this was waiting for her at the end of it. 

Gentle touches gave way to soft squeezes, and kisses on various areas were left off in favor of increasingly lingering kisses to the lips. 

He kissed her deeply, pulling her flush against him. She pulled back from the kiss after a moment, a little surprised. 

“Erik,” she asked shyly. “Do you- do you want to- again?”

He paused, studying her expression as she looked at him. He couldn’t very well lie and say he didn’t, not when she so clearly felt the proof to the contrary pressed up against her, but he was hesitant to make her go through that again so soon. 

“Do you mind?” he tried for nonchalance. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“I wouldn’t have asked to marry you if I minded,” she said dryly, and he chuckled as he rolled her onto her back. 

A part of his mind tried to shame him because he was certain that the only reason she was offering this was because he had been so inadequate the first time, but he pushed that voice aside. Regardless of her reasoning, this was not an offer he was about to turn down. 

She found she wasn’t nervous this time, and her hands naturally went up to his shoulders and his back instead of gripping the sheets. At first she hadn’t expected much else from their second time together, except that perhaps it wouldn’t feel quite so strange to her and that he might last just a bit longer, but true to his word, he _was_ a fast learner - he knew, this time, what angle his hips had to be at in relation to hers, and where she seemed to like be touched the most - knowledge he surprised her with when he used it to help recreate the experience he had given her not so long ago. 

In the brief moments before all ability to form coherent thoughts left her, she thought it was only fitting, in a way, that they had a second time that evening, one was better than their first - after all, had they not needed second times in nearly every step of their relationship? Second ‘first’ meetings, second weddings, second wedding nights, a second chance to improve upon the experiences of that second wedding night...

When it ended, this time, he made certain not to crush her into the mattress again, instead falling to his side, and without waiting to be asked, he bundled her close to his chest and held her. She felt like she could weep from sheer happiness. To be there in his arms like that - the feeling of safety and warmth and being cared for was incomparable. 

“Good girl,” he crooned, his voice slightly hoarse, as he kissed the top of her head. “My sweet Christine.”

“Oh, _Angel_,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering shut. 

Nothing else was said that night, no other words that needed to be spoken between them, because everything that had needed to be said was said, and the only thing left was their love for each other. It was more than enough, and they were content.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this chapter was written while I had a fever, so I hope you like nearly 5k words of hugging and questionable descriptions

The first thing Erik became aware of as he blinked awake was that he wasn’t in his coffin, evidenced by both the open space around him and by the annoying sunlight that was falling on him. He shifted, trying to avoid its brightness, and noticed his mannequin laying next to him. He was about to close his eyes again and leave it at that when suddenly the figure next to him moved in a very un-mannequin-esque manner. 

His eyes widened in horror. This wasn’t his mannequin - this was _Christine_. 

He quickly pressed his face into the pillow, hiding the scarred flesh - she shouldn’t have to see that, especially not in the daylight - but despite her movement she stayed sleeping and showed no sign of stirring again. He let go of the breath he was holding and relaxed a little. 

Even now, he could scarcely believe that the previous night was not a hallucination or a trick of the mind. He also couldn’t believe that he had _left_ her, just up and left a woman who so clearly adored him. And she had worked so hard to get him back! He swallowed against a lump in his throat. He was far past the point of wondering what he’d done to deserve her - he knew without a doubt that he _didn’t_ deserve her. But she was here, all the same. What could he do with that except work extra hard to be worthy of her? 

He had never been so close to her before in the sunlight. It was fascinating, seeing her in this different way. Her hair seemed to glow, a distinct honey tone he’d never noticed before. She had a few light freckles across her cheeks and nose, something that made him smile. Her eyelashes were so long, a thing he was already aware of but still a thing he couldn’t help but be entranced by. Her lips - those very lips that he had kissed last night - those lips that had kissed him - he pressed his own lips into a thin line at the memory of it, his eyes threatening to water. 

In all of his life, he’d never had someone who loved him. He had loved people - he truly had - but none of them had ever loved him in return. He had strived to earn their affections and come up short again and again, whether by simple virtue of who he was, like with his mother, or by some mistake or accidental offense, like had happened with a number of failed attempts at friendships, or even by tragedy brought about himself, whether purposely caused by himself in a fit rage or completely unintended like with Giovanni’s daughter. 

But Christine knew him better than anyone else. She knew what he was like, who he was - what he was. He had hurt her very many times over the course of knowing her, all of them accidental, but hurts all the same. He had even abandoned her in what was the closest to a fit of rage he’d had in over a decade. And yet- 

She stayed. 

She did more than stay - she had sought him out. She loved him so much that she refused to let him throw away what was one of the only good things in his life. He might consider that a few people had held a sort of fondness for him at certain times, but he had never been loved like this. 

He reached out a trembling hand, wanting to caress her with it but thinking the better of it at the last moment - he didn’t wish to wake her, not if she still needed rest. 

She was his. Utterly and irrevocably his. His wife. His love. His Christine. But that was only half of the truth - she was his, yes, but he was also hers. He belonged to her in a way he’d never belonged to anyone else. He would be a dog at her feet for the rest of his life, he knew, but also knew that it wouldn’t be like that to her - he wouldn’t be one of those dogs whose master kicked and mistreated it. With Christine as his mistress, he’d be more like Carlotta’s little dog - beloved, pampered, well cared for indeed. What a glorious thing, to belong to Christine Daaé. 

It was thus that she awoke, to find him tracing his finger over the outline of her, ghosting over the curve of her shoulder and the features of her face, almost touching her but still not. 

He froze as she opened her eyes and blinked, looking at him blankly. Would she be disgusted by what they’d done? Horrified to see him in the light of day? Did she regret the previous night? So many thoughts rushed through his mind at once, all of them wiped away to nothing when she smiled at him. 

She was looking at him the same way she’d looked at him last night. Only now she wasn’t giving him that look because he was pleasuring her - he was simply existing, and yet still she saw fit to look at him like that. 

A grin broke out on his face, and he pulled her close to kiss every inch of skin that wasn’t covered by the blanket, forgetting even to try to continue to hide his face. 

She was pleased to see him smiling. She had been worried, because he had been crying previous night - surely he had thought her asleep as he held her long after their lovemaking was over, and it had taken her a few minutes to realize the funny hitch to his breathing that she could hear and feel as she was pressed to his chest was, in fact, him quietly sobbing. She hadn’t been certain of what to say or do, so she hadn’t done anything at all, simply let him feel his emotions and pretended to still be asleep just in case he felt embarrassed at her having known what he was doing. 

“How do you feel?” he asked softly, his eyes flicking over her. 

He had tried to be as gentle as he could, but he knew that inexperience and nerves and overeagerness had still made him be rougher with her than he would have liked. 

Her face was pink as she settled back into her cocoon of blankets and pillows. She had rightly guessed that this was not a mere average ‘how are you today’ question. 

“I’m fine, I think,” she paused as she shifted around, not feeling any major pains anywhere. 

“Oh,” her nose wrinkled as she rubbed her thighs together. “I- I think I need to wash...”

He was relieved that she didn’t have any complaints, but he was loath to let her out of the bed so soon. 

“Not just yet,” he pleaded, pulling her into his arms. 

“You’re cold!” she giggled and squirmed in his grasp. 

“You love it,” he murmured as he pulled her closer. 

He placed kiss after kiss to her forehead as a hand ran down her back and came to rest on her bottom, gently kneading the flesh there as he pressed her close to himself. Christine only smiled as she let him do as he pleased - there was no more nervous laughter inspired by such a touch anymore - after the previous night she had quickly become accustomed to his touch in any and every place on her body. 

His kisses trailed down her nose and found her lips where they lingered and turned heated. A fierce gleam came into his eyes and he softly pushed her shoulder back, causing her to lean back against the pillows as he positioned himself above her. A glimpse of trepidation flashed across her face as he nudged her thighs apart with his knee, realizing his intentions. 

“Erik,” she said softly, embarrassed. “I can’t - not so soon after... I’m- I’m too sore to go again right now.”

His gaze softened, and he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead before settling himself next to her side, content just to hold her. Of course she would be sore for a while after the previous night - especially considering how she had generously offered to let him try again after their first coupling had ended in a shamefully short amount of time. They had the rest of their lives to explore the joys of the flesh together, she deserved some time to recuperate. 

There were other considerations to keep in account, too. 

“Christine,” he whispered, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Hm?”

“Would you find it disagreeable if, next time, I were to use a- a condom?” 

It was, as far as he knew, against her Church’s teaching to use such a thing, but really - _he_ would be the one using it, not her, so would there truly be in any harm in that? He was afraid, for a moment, of offending her with the request, but she took it in stride and simply shook her head. 

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t mind.” 

“I don’t want you to have to give up the stage. Not just yet.”

He didn’t. Her career was just beginning. She shouldn’t have to delay that because of him. 

She also shouldn’t have to give birth to monster because of him. 

Christine smiled just a little. 

“We talked about this, remember?” 

“Hmm. So we did.”

He still remembered the supremely awkward conversation they had had not that long ago, but at the time he had never assumed it involved _him_ as the other party. 

He was finding it difficult, however, to think very much about the future, especially with his his mind kept drawing him back to the previous night. 

He’d never really given much thought to whether or not he felt _manly_ throughout his life - a concept he often had no time for due to the fears of not even feeling like a person to begin with - but after the previous night it was something he couldn’t help but find his mind returning to again and again. He’d never felt quite so manly, so powerful, as he had while she’d pressed her nails into his back, clinging to him and squeezing her legs around his waist. It was a feeling he could swiftly get used to, to know that he could create that kind of reaction in her. 

“Erik?” she ventured to ask after he had been silent a little too long. 

“Hm?”

“What are you thinking of?”

“Last night,” he answered, dragging a long, cold finger up her spine and making her shiver. 

She was a quiet a moment, trying to gather the nerve to ask him. 

“Last night...” she shrugged her shoulders a little, shyly avoiding his eye. “Did you... Well, was I-“

He waited for her as she struggled to find the words. 

“Did I... I didn’t disappoint you, did I?” she asked softly. 

He had spent so long wanting her, and then when it had finally happened... What if she hadn’t been experienced enough and had disappointed him? What if she had known too many things that a blushing bride shouldn’t, and it had put him off? A small part of her feared she had done something wrong last night, and that was why he had been crying. What if she had unknowingly destroyed some fantasy he had constructed in his head? 

Erik couldn’t speak for a moment. How could she ever think-? 

“_Christine_, my love, _no_, you could never disappoint me, ever. Don’t even think that.”

“Mm,” she snuggled closer to him. 

He was silent a long moment. 

“Did _I_-“ 

“Not at all!” she cut him off, leaning up to kiss his lips. “You’re perfect.”

He was about to protest - he was far from perfect, but Christine cut him off again, this time with another kiss. 

“You,” she said, punctuating each word with a kiss. “Are- absolutely- perfect-“

He had been so distracted by both her words and her actions that he barely noticed she had pulled away from his arms in preparation to leave bed. 

She hesitated just a moment, realizing she was completely undressed underneath of the sheets, before standing up. There was no modesty in the action, she couldn’t even pretend that there was, but it wasn’t her fault - Erik had, after all, been the one to throw every piece of her clothing so far from the bed. She supposed it didn’t really matter - he’d already seen every last inch of her. She spotted her chemise on the floor not too far away, and went to pick it up. 

Erik watched, entranced, as she walked across the floor. He didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to seeing how lovely she was. He pulled the sheet up to his chin, subconsciously wanting to hide even as he admired her form. 

_She_ was perfect. He had seen her, of course, in the pale glow cast by the street lamp, but the sun revealed so many new and wonderful details - a handful of freckles across her shoulder blades, the soft white marks on her hips that had formed there as she’d grown into a woman, the little tangles left in her hair from being rumpled against the pillows - he didn’t think there was any sight that could compare to her. His fingers itched to immortalize her in paper and charcoal - or perhaps even in a photograph, provided he could develop the film himself and away from prying eyes. 

She bit her lip as she bent over to retrieve the chemise, knowing that he was watching. She righted herself quickly and pulled the chemise on over her head, only to realize something wasn’t quite right. 

The left shoulder didn’t hang the same way as the right - she reached a hand up to feel it, then turned to Erik with surprise. 

“You ripped it!” she tried to admonish, fighting the grin that was threatening to overtake her face. 

He pulled the sheet up higher around him, sheepish. 

“Sorry.”

“It was my favorite.”

“I’ll buy you a new one... I’m sorry,” he gave up fighting his own grin, instead trying to pull the sheet up to his half-formed nose. 

She clicked her tongue at him and shook her head as she went to the bathroom to start the water for a bath. 

Erik took the opportunity to get out of the bed and make a grab for his robe, not realizing that Christine, the wicked girl, had assumed he would do so at that moment and was secretly observing him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. 

Using the pretense of pinning up her hair, she stared intently as he began to push back the sheets, and then let her eyes fall to where they would as he strode across the floor to find his robe and wrap himself in it. She was embarrassed by the blush that rose to her cheeks at the sight there in the mirror, embarrassed that she’d had to look away after a mere few seconds. She’d never seen anything quite like that in person before, even though she was now intimately acquainted with the feel of it. She had seen _art_, of course, but she found looking at a drawing was rather different than seeing it in person. 

Now covered, Erik came into the bathroom with her, thankfully missing the flushed look on her face and how she couldn’t quite meet his eye, instead wrapping her in a hug as he kissed the top of her head. 

She let her eyes flutter shut as she leaned into him. She wondered why she had waited so long for something that felt so right - being with him like this. All that uncertainty, the restless weighing of her options, the not knowing how the chips would fall. It all seemed so silly now, with how wonderfully it had turned out, but maybe it was because of all of her fretting and waiting to be certain that things had turned out like they had. She would never know for certain if things would have turned out just as good had she acted earlier, but she did know that she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. Her heart ached a little at the thought, at what still needed to be taken care of, but she let it fade to the back of her mind for now. Now was for simply existing with him. 

He pulled her with him as he exited the bathroom. 

“My water will get cold!” she protested half-heartedly, but went with him willingly. 

“Then I’ll draw more for you,” a waved a dismissive hand at the tub, filled with steaming water. 

He led her over to the spinet that was on the far wall, something she had barely registered as being there the previous night due to her singular focus on Erik at the time. He sat down at the bench and maneuvered her into sitting on his lap facing straight ahead, her back flush against his chest. 

She wiggled a little, the position rather awkward for her, as he put his arms around either side her and began to play a tune he made up on the spot. 

“Christine,” he admonished gently. “Don’t wiggle.”

She bit back a snicker, and despite her best tries, had to move yet again to regain her balance. 

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer and resting his chin on her shoulder, his other hand playing on all the same. 

“My dear,” he whispered in a low voice that gave her goosebumps. “If you don’t stop squirming, I’m afraid you’re going to end up finding yourself even more sore, hmm?”

She laughed at this and half turned to kiss his jaw, feeling exactly what he meant even through the thick fabric of his robe. She nuzzled her nose against his, and action he returned after a brief pause. 

Her chemise, already scandalously short, rode up her legs even more with how she was squirming. His eyes fell to her lap, to the now-exposed upper area of her inner thighs, and suddenly he froze. 

He noticed, for the first time, the smear of his dried seed between her thighs, streaked through with a small amount of her own dried blood, and he realized why she had wanted so badly to wash. 

Without another word he turned her around and scooped her up, carrying her directly to the bathroom. How selfish he had been, he scolded himself, to leave her in discomfort like that for so long - he hadn’t even thought to help her clean up the previous night. 

She had thrown her arms around his neck as he’d picked her up, easily going with him. She was no longer surprised at his sudden changes of mood, knowing that he frequently had them. 

He did, however, surprise her when he took her into the bathroom and set her down into the tub. He pulled off her chemise - gently this time - and set it on the floor nearby. 

Before she could do so herself, he grabbed a washcloth and a bar of soap. 

“Erik!” she squeaked as he kneeled next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up and dipping both the cloth and the soap into the water. “I’m quite capable of washing by myself, you know!”

He paused, studying her face. 

“You wish me to leave?”

Had he overstepped a boundary? 

She slowly shook her head, sinking down a little deeper into the water. 

“No... just... just so long as you _know_,” she raised an eyebrow, somewhat embarrassed. 

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I am quite aware that Christine Daaé-“

“_Travers_.”

“That Christine _Travers_ is a very capable woman, knowledgeable in many things, one of them being how to take a bath.”

She giggled and allowed him to begin washing her. 

He mused over how he hadn’t given thought to very many things the previous night, things he really should have considered. And now there was the very real possibility that she was already pregnant. All of their planning and work and effort, delayed for at least a year, and all because he hadn’t had the presence of mind to pull out before he finished inside of her. Would life truly be so cruel as to cause her to convince after just one night, on her first time? 

“Is the water too hot for your hands?” she asked curiously, drawing him out from his despairing thoughts. 

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. 

She nodded, hoping he was telling the truth. Hot water always felt hotter when she was cold, but maybe it was different with how his hands were. Maybe he was simply used to it, or worse - he couldn’t feel the temperature very much at all. Her brow crinkled just a little at this thought, but he did seem fine. 

He tried to remain professional as he ran the cloth over her, over her shoulders and back, her arms and her breasts, down her stomach. He was silent as he did so, daring a glance up at her face. She seemed equally shy in how she glanced at him and quickly looked away, but she didn’t flinch away from his touch, not even when he reached the cloth to between her legs. Instead, she scooted closer to him so that he might reach better. He was once again overcome with emotion at how much she trusted him with the most intimate and fragile parts of herself. 

He finished washing her legs down to her toes, which made her twitch and giggle again, and he laughed a little as well. Christine finally clean and his task done, he stood up before stooping down and pulling her out of the water, helping her to stand up on the rug. He wrapped a fluffy towel around her, pressed a kiss to the side of her nose, and hugged her tightly. 

“I’m never letting you go again, Christine,” he murmured, and to his ear it managed to sound like both a promise and a threat. 

It really did seem like he meant it, she thought - he helped her to dry and then to dress, her dressing gown being the only thing he put on her. It felt absolutely scandalous to wear so little around him, and she loved it. 

After so long of being careful not to touch her, he felt he now couldn’t keep his hands to himself. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked as he squeezed her hand, leading her out of the bathroom. “Should we order breakfast?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

She really was rather hungry. 

A nearly wicked look of mischief came across his unmasked face. 

“Christine... My sweet girl, why don’t _you_ order breakfast, love?”

Her eyes widened and darted to the telephone. 

“It’s not difficult, not at all,” he steered her to the chair next to the little table with the phone. “I’ll show you just what to do.”

She sat nervously on the chair, an anxious smile playing across her lips. Despite her misgivings, she held an eager hand out for the receiver. 

“Are you sure?” he teased as he kneeled in front of her. 

“Let me try,” she took it and held it up to her ear and dialed the number Erik showed her. 

The ringing on the other end confused her for a moment, then she jumped just a little - at the exact same time that a person had answered, Erik had placed hands on top of her legs. 

“Concierge, how can I assist you?”

“_Erik_!” she hissed, grinning, before addressing the person on the phone and haltingly placing her order, distracted by how her husband was kneading his thumbs into her thighs. 

She finally hung the phone up with trembling fingers and a red face, hoping that she hadn’t made too much of a fool out of herself to the concierge. She covered her face with her hands and groaned, leaning her head back against the wall. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked innocently, his fingertips moving in little circles. 

She shot a hand out and grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him up so she could kiss him. He awkwardly tried to sit on the chair with her as they kissed before he decided that the couch was a better choice and they relocated. 

He kept his kisses and caresses gentle, not pushing for anything more but still wanting to enjoy her. He wondered vaguely about when she wouldn’t be sore any longer, and if she’d need a very long break after the next time, too. 

There was one clever little hand on his chest, trying to find its way under the buttons of his robe to touch the skin found there. Naughty little hand - there was nothing there it would actually enjoy touching. He grasped her wrist and brought the hand to his lips, kissing her palm several times before placing the hand up on his shoulder, where it ended up curling around the back of his neck. Much better.

It was only a moment later that her other hand was tentatively placed on his chest again, and as it didn’t seek to dive beneath his clothing, he decided to allow it. 

Emboldened by it not being pulled away, she let her hand slip lower and lower, inch by inch. He realized where she was heading with this and was torn between wanting her to do it and not wanting her to _have_ to do it - he was certain that the experience of touching him was not a wholly pleasant one, but she _had_ been the one to initiate it. 

He was about to let her do as pleased with her shy hand when suddenly there was a knock at the door. 

He had never been more miffed to have to eat. 

She pulled back apologetically, patting him on the shoulder before going to retrieve the tray of food. 

He settled himself at the table with a weary sigh. The food was good, he supposed, but he thought that he would have preferred what had been about to happen on the couch instead. 

Halfway through breakfast she stood up, excusing herself. Erik sprang up as well. 

“It’s alright,” she told him. “I’m just- well, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I will go with you,” he assured her, taking her hand in his. 

She gave an amused smile and rolled her eyes. Never leave her indeed. 

She was about to walk in and close the door when Erik made to go in with her. She stopped. 

“Oh- Erik, I’m just- _going to the bathroom_. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Okay,” he agreed, and moved to follow her again. 

She looked at him despairingly. Did he not understand?

“Erik- I have to- to _pee_.”

She had never stated it so bluntly before, and felt a slight flush on her face. 

“Oh?” he asked with mild interest, twirling one of her curls around his finger. 

“Erik!” she shoved him backwards, nearly slamming the door behind her before he could follow. 

He cleared his throat. Perhaps he _had_ overstepped a boundary after all. He made a mental note of her preference to not have him there with her at those kinds of moments. 

After a few moments she did appear once more, and he placed an arm around her shoulders as they walked back to the kitchen table, and she leaned her head against him. She couldn’t fault him for wanting to be close to her, not after almost losing each other like that. 

They sat back down to finish their breakfast, Christine sipping at her lemonade. Erik eyed her as she did so, knowing it really wasn’t her fault that the sugary drink had been delivered - she had left the beverage choice up to the kitchen - but it still concerned him. She set the glass down, and he made careful note that it was just slightly more than halfway empty now. 

“You should be careful with that,” he fretted. “You don’t want to have any problems with your voice when you’re-“

He stoped and stared, eyes going wide. How on earth had he ever forgotten?

“Christine-“ he said urgently. “You- you have a performance _tonight_! We have to get you back to the opera right now!”

Her brow creased and she folded her hands on the table, looking down at them. 

“I’ve given it some thought, Erik,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You know you said that you’d be going to a doctor after opening night, and it’s after opening night now. And I have to tell you that- that I’m not going back onstage until you see a doctor.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what going to a doctor was like back then lol

Erik was silent a moment, then quickly stood. 

“We’ll have to hurry if we’re to make back in time for your performance,” he swiftly went and grabbed his clothing, preparing to change. “There’s a doctor not too far from here, hopefully it won’t take long once we’re there.”

She started, surprised that he had agreed to it so quickly. She had been expecting excuses and bargaining and pleas to put it off until after tonight’s show. 

She stood to go dress as well, finding her dress where she had left it folded from the previous night. 

She tried to dress quickly, but after a moment she sought out Erik to help her lace the back of her corset. She found him the bathroom, standing over the sink, seemingly having finished washing his face and about to pull his wig off. She stopped and stared a moment then looked away, turning her back to scene. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. 

Erik watched her in the mirror, uncertain of what he felt. His hands hovered at the edges of the wig - he did need to remove it, it had been ages since he’d taken it off, really, and it was starting to irritate his skin - but to remove it front of her? His jaw clenched just a little. 

“You can look, if you wish,” he said stiffly. 

He supposed that she’d have to see it sometime, after all. Far better for it to be on an occasion that he chose as opposed to an accident or even her snatching it away to gawk. 

She leaned her back against the doorframe and glanced over from the corner of her eye, not daring to face the scene fully. It would be a lie to say she’d never imagined what might be underneath, and all of it was horribly unpleasant. She prayed she wouldn’t upset him with her reaction. 

He pulled the wig off, slightly agitated. The adhesive he used was starting to leave welts, as it always did past a dozen hours of wear. He set it on the counter, dipping the washcloth in water again to wipe away as much of it as he could. 

“Oh!” Christine exclaimed, startling him just a little. “You have hair!”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed by what she’d just blurted out, but she truly had assumed him to be entirely bald. 

He met her eye in the mirror, his expression a little pained. 

“I do,” he agreed. 

She crept closer, curious. She noticed what she assumed to be the main reason he wore a wig, which was that the same twisted and scarred flesh on the side of his face also went up past where his hairline would have been on that side, almost to the top of his head - the wig hid what the mask could not. His hair, which she now noticed was thinning and bare in a few patches, was completely white. She regarded him silently for a few moments as he washed the adhesive away, and the realization that the simple act of wearing the wig was causing him injury, no matter how minor, made her heart ache. Still, her eyes were continually drawn back to his hair - his real hair. 

“May... may I touch it?” she finally asked. 

He looked at her as though she’d asked him to balance on one finger upside down. 

She twisted her hands together, slightly ashamed yet annoyed at her own shame. 

“It’s only fair, don’t you think?” she jutted her chin out. “After all those places of mine you touched last night...”

She lowered her gaze, frowning a little as the shame slowly won out. 

“Unless...” she hesitated. “Unless it pains you...”

He sighed a little, and turned towards her, lowering his head. Her eyes lit up and she gently ran a hand through his short locks, stifling another exclamation. 

“It’s so soft!” 

He raised an eyebrow, and she blushed. 

“Well... I just wasn’t expecting that, is all,” she explained, feeling a little silly. “It really is very nice hair.”

No one had ever said that before - no one had ever touched his hair with such gentleness, either, and the novel feeling of her kind little hand almost made him want to cry. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply instead, something she wasn’t expecting but swiftly returned. He broke the kiss and placed his smooth cheek against hers, wrapping her corset strings around his fingers. 

“Did you need help with this?” he murmured, and she nodded. 

She felt his fingers up and down the laces, loosening them in preparation to remove her corset. 

“Erik!” she squirmed. “Not like that!”

He chuckled warmly and tightened them again, turning her around so he could finish pulling them tight before tying the ends in a little bow and giving her a pat on the lower back. 

He turned back to the mirror, his smile fading as he did. 

“I’m not fond of my own hair,” he revealed as he placed the wig back over his head and settled it into place, forced to forgo the adhesive. “It reminds me of my age, and I don’t like being reminded how old I am... especially around you.”

She nodded in an understanding manner, reaching out to squeeze his arm. 

Her corset laced, she finished dressing in a matter of minutes. 

As he tied up his cravat something on top of the dresser caught his eye. The necklace. It had been in his pocket that evening of her debut, and he had intended to give it to her afterwards. He had forgotten all about it when he had fled, not realizing until much later in his hotel room that he still had it with him. 

“Christine-“

He turned to her, coming to stand just behind her as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror. She lifted her eyes to his in the mirror, silently questioning. 

“This is for you, my dear-“ he said tenderly as he placed the jewelry around her neck and fixed the little clasp. 

She gasped as she reached up to touch an incredulous finger across the black gems. 

“Oh, Erik!”

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. Had he truly bought it for her? 

“You didn’t have to get me this,” she said in a trembling whisper. 

“You didn’t have to come after me,” he said quietly. “And yet you did.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. 

“How lucky we both are,” he mused, meeting her eye in the mirror. 

She placed one of her hands over his, looking at both of them there in the mirror, her lips trembling and turning down. In this moment, she could definitely understand why Erik had put off seeing a doctor for so long. Before the sun had set they would have their answer as to the state of his health, and then there could be no more living in denial of the inevitable. How would she cope if the news was bad? If she had far less time with him then she thought? How easy it would be to simply pretend everything was well and good and just ignore the signs to contrary, never finding out for certain. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, summoning as much strength as she could. 

“I’m ready,” he said as he kissed her cheek, but he knew he’d never be fully ready to hear what he was afraid he was about to be told. 

He hailed a cab once out on the street, and gave the driver the address of the doctor that Nadir had recommended to him. Once on their way, they were both quiet. 

She scooted closer to him, reaching out and grabbing his hand, squeezing it. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, holding it close afterwards. 

This was the last thing he wanted to do, especially after such a lovely time spent with her, but she was right. He had promised that he’d see someone, and he was not about to dismiss her threat of not going onstage as empty. If there was the slightest chance that the doctor could prolong his life in any way or for any length of time, it was worth it to be able to have more time to spend with her. 

She wiped at an errant tear on her cheek. 

“I love your little home by the lake, Erik,” she eventually broke the silence. “But I don’t want to spend the rest of my days down there. I want a real house, with sunlight and flowers. Don’t you?”

She looked up at him eagerly. He couldn’t die if they had a future to plan together, could he?

“Ah,” he shifted a little uncomfortably. “Well, the thing about that is- we, ah- there is already a house ready for us.”

“What?”

“I built you a house, Christine,” he looked away, a little ashamed. 

“Oh,” she breathed. “Well, when will it be done?”

“It’s... it’s already done, you see.”

She stared a moment, trying to calculate the time needed to have done such a thing. 

“How?” was all she could come up with. 

“I started it quite a while ago...”

She looked out the window, her brow crinkling. 

“You thought I was going to marry Raoul. Why would you build a house for you and I?”

He ducked his head, his face burning. 

“I am a very shameful man, Christine.”

She placed her other hand over their already entwined hands, hoping to reassure him. 

“I liked the thought of it,” he went on. “Of planning a life with you, even though I knew it was all pretend.”

“So you just... built a house for nothing? For pretend?”

“It wasn’t for nothing, it was for _you_. I was going to give it to you, you know. A wedding present. Or an inheritance. Whichever came first, really,” he said quietly. “A home of your own do with as you saw fit. To escape from the boy’s annoying family every now and then. To live in, if you should ever get disowned. To sell, even, if you ever had the need of the funds. It’s your house, Christine.”

She hugged him. 

“I can’t wait to see it,” she told him. “I can’t wait to live in it, together.”

He hugged her tightly, closing his eyes. Underneath of the current anxiety and despair about seeing a doctor and hearing what he might say, Erik was still so very happy. He briefly considered the fact that the curtains on the little windows could be closed, and what this signified, but he really was content just to hold her close. 

As they drew nearer to their destination, Erik both wanted it over with and to know already but also to flee and never have to go in the building. Christine could feel him shifting nervously as they began to approach the doctor’s office, and an upward glance showed his face was rather pale. 

“Erik,” she whispered, giving his arm a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

His eyes fluttered to her face and he swallowed hard. 

“Be honest with him, okay?” she continued, her brow furrowing just a little. “Don’t leave anything out, tell him everything you can.”

He gave a single nod. 

The mood was oppressive as they entered the building, Erik almost fearing that he’d expire right then and there with the stress of it all. Christine stayed close to his side as he spoke to the receptionist. He was told that yes, the doctor could see him today, but he’d have to wait a while because he didn’t have an appointment. 

He sat stiffly in one of the chairs of the waiting room, Christine sitting next to him. She placed her hand over his on the armrest, a gestured he appreciated. He didn’t care how inappropriate it might be to show such bawdy displays of affection in public - he squeezed her hand in his and didn’t let go. 

They both stayed silent as they waited, listening to occasional conversation of other patients. Christine could feel her heart beating in her throat. Any words she would have wanted to say all stuck in her mouth. 

“Monsieur Travers?” 

They both flinched at the voice of the nurse. Christine made to get up, but Erik stopped her. 

“You stay here, love,” he caressed her cheek before turning to follow the nurse. 

He would have loved to have her there as support, but rationally he knew that if it were bad news, he should be the one to break it gently to her - she wouldn’t be much support if she broke down at the doctor’s news right along with him. 

He seemed in a daze as he waited for the doctor in the examination room, hardly able to believe he was truly doing this. The doctor came in a short time later, and he smiled upon seeing Erik, his gaze lingering just a moment over the mask. 

“Ah, Monsieur Travers! How nice to meet you. My patient Nadir told me all about you,” he reached out to shake his hand, but Erik merely stared at it until the man awkwardly retracted it. 

“What brings you in today?”

Erik cleared his throat and began to explain his symptoms, his voice trembling just slightly - he had accepted that these things would kill him, eventually, but it was still difficult to speak about them. 

He eyed with suspicion the strange instruments that doctor used, especially the large cuff that was put around his arm, but he dutifully answered each and every question he was asked. 

Finally, the doctor told him his opinion and diagnosis. 

Christine felt as though he’d been gone for an eternity. Was it good that it was taking so long? Surely not, was it? Perhaps Erik had fainted in the room, and they were trying to revive him. Perhaps he had more issues than she realized, and it was taking longer to explain everything. What if Erik had begun to panic too hard? What if, in a fit of terror, he started fighting the doctor? 

“Madame Travers?”

Christine nearly jumped out of her skin. 

“You can come see your husband now - he asked that you come back,” the nurse told her with a polite smile. 

Christine followed with shaky steps. She was directed to the room where Erik was still redressing after having to roll up his sleeves and unbutton his shirt. He had a look of pure contemplation on his face as he slowly buttoned his shirtfront, and Christine hardly waited for the door to close before she ran to him and threw her arms around his middle, hugging him tightly burying her face in his chest. 

He embraced her, letting one hand cradle the back of her head, and simply stood like that for a long moment before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass jar that the doctor had given him. 

“It’s alright, sweet, look-“

She looked up at what he held out, and her brow knit. 

_Nitroglycerin_, the little paper label on the jar said. Nitroglycerin? She had come across that word in a book before - an adventure book, and the nitroglycerin had been used to cause an explosion in a cave to help find a hidden treasure. 

She looked up to Erik, uncertain. Why had the doctor given him _this_? It looked to be a bottle of pills. Wouldn’t Erik explode if he swallowed them? The book had said nitroglycerin was very volatile, after all. 

“He thinks the arteries around my heart aren’t working too well-“ he said softly, and she sniffled. “-and that means that my heart isn’t getting enough oxygen, especially when being strained with physical activity.”

She wiped away her tears only for more to appear. 

“But he says that this will cause the arteries to dilate, improving blood flow and easing the pain,” he shook the bottle just a little, making her cringe away from it and the little clacking noises the pills made. 

“And- and how long-“ she stuttered. “Your- l-life expectancy-?”

He squeezed her. 

“It’s normal, he said - presuming his diagnosis is correct and the pills actually work, and provided I don’t develop any new symptoms - he said he saw no reason why I shouldn’t have a normal life span.”

She took a shuddering breath. 

“Do you mean it?” she whispered. 

He nodded, and kissed her. 

“A normal life, like anyone else,” he murmured when he broke away. 

She blinked hard as she smiled up at him. It was such a relief. She felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off of her, one that had been there so long she’d almost forgotten just how crushing it had been until it was gone. 

“We have to make sure of that,” she said as firmly as she could through the remnants of her tears. “We have to keep you healthy - no more living underground, you need sunlight and fresh air and warmth and food three times a day and a full night’s sleep and-“

He laughed. 

“And your voice,” he added, arching an eyebrow. “Speaking of-“

He raised her chin with a finger and wiped the tears on her cheeks away with his thumbs. 

“You have a show tonight,” he said, his voice low and serious. “And I swear to you - I will get you to the opera house on time.”

_The show_. She had almost forgotten how close it was - the doctor visit had taken several hours in total. Would they truly make it back on time? But she nodded in agreement, because she trusted him, even when he said this. 

In another part of Paris, another couple was having a morning quite different than the sweet moments Erik and Christine had shared in their hotel room. 

Carlotta scowled at the newspaper before her before throwing it down to the ground, causing Piangi to wince. It fell open to the gossip column, the source of her newfound rage. 

“Paris’ new sweetheart?!” she fumed, quoting the article about Christine and struggling to stand. 

Piangi leapt to his feet and helped her up, fretting over her. Her foot was mostly healed, but mostly wasn’t completely. She still had a limp and he knew it would pain her by the end of the day as it had every other day. 

“And the brat just runs away?” she continued. “Is she not even grateful for the opportunity she’s been given? The managers won’t even say if she’ll be performing tonight! That means the little toad is still missing! Probably ran off with a patron, let the fame go to her head, and now she doesn’t even care that there’s no one to play her role tonig-“

A wicked gleam came into her eye and she clutched Piangi’s arm tight. 

“Ubaldo,” she whispered fervently. “Help me dress, quickly - we’re going to the Populaire. There’s going to be a surprise at tonight’s show!”

He sighed but complied. He felt she still needed to rest, but he knew that once she got an idea in her mind, she wouldn’t let go. He kissed her hand. 

“Of course, il mio cuore.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Mazen for leaving a comment that inspired the first part of this chapter :3

Oh,” groaned Raoul as he slowly awakened on the floor of a strange hotel room. “I’m dying, Daroga.”

Nadir looked at him from where he sat in the nearby chair, peeking over the edge of his newspaper. 

“You’re not dying,” he said. “You’re hungover.”

Raoul rolled to his side, his head throbbing with sharp pains. His eyes watered. 

“Dying of love...”

Nadir sighed. The boy was almost as bad Erik. 

“I take it back - you’re not hungover,” he mused. “You’re actually still drunk.”

He moaned pitifully, one hand clutching his heart and the other his stomach. 

Nadir sighed, glad (and not for the first time) that he didn’t drink. Not only did it prevent hangovers but it allowed him to be the only one of the little group who had had the presence of mind to book a hotel room for the evening, thus preventing them from spending the night in a gutter somewhere. 

At least Philippe had promptly fallen asleep once he had been guided to bed. Raoul, however, had sprung up out of the bed each and every time Nadir had tried to settle him down, insisting on running to the balcony where he could howl and sob and cry Christine’s name out until passing pedestrians hissed at him to be quiet and began to throw rocks at him. 

Nadir had eventually been able to corral him back inside, but he had refused to go bed and at last he had fallen asleep on the floor. 

Watching him now as he groaned and writhed, Nadir almost felt guilty about simply sitting by and saying nothing as the boy had ordered drink after drink at the bar. But even his brother had been doing the same - Philippe had had even more than Raoul. 

It had started innocently enough when he had happened upon the brothers in the street, the three of them soaked in the rain. They had agreed to go in to the nearest restaurant to dry off and talk - Nadir still needed to be caught up on what had happened with Erik. 

They had sat at the bar and Philippe had ordered drinks for them - rum for himself and Raoul, seltzer for Nadir - and Raoul had recounted how they found Erik. He had tried to remain stoic about it all, but as the story went on he began to lose some of his composure. Philippe kept the drinks coming and they commiserated with the young man on his lost love until the two of them were quite drunk. 

It was late in the evening and many drinks later that Nadir had shepherded them into a hotel, as they were in no condition to make it back to the de Chagny mansion or to Nadir’s flat. 

Raoul sat up stiffly, wondering a little at why he was on the floor. He squinted his eyes, feeling the tears welling behind them, let out a shuddering breath. 

She was gone. Lost to him forever. He hadn’t realized just how much he loved her, just how many of his hopes and plans for the future had hinged on her being there. 

He had the vague sense that he’d made a fool of himself the previous night after he’d left her presence, and he was almost grateful that he didn’t remember very much. He looked away, shamefaced. He had embarrassed himself in front of his new friend, he was certain. 

But Nadir kindly helped him up off the floor and patted his back, settled him in a chair and then poured him a glass of water. 

Philippe eventually stumbled in to the room, bleary-eyed and scowling, but his face softened when he saw Raoul. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

Raoul shrugged. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said helplessly. 

It wasn’t that he regretted letting her go. It really did still seem like the right thing to do. But- where did that leave him? 

“You can do anything you want to,” Philippe offered gently as he sat in the chair next to Raoul’s. 

Raoul only shrugged again. 

“I only wanted to be with her...”

Nadir and Philippe exchanged a concerned look. 

“Surely... Surely there’s something else you might want to do...” Nadir tried. 

“What about the North Pole?” Philippe asked suddenly. 

Raoul looked up, considering. In the haze of thinking of Christine, he had forgotten about the North Pole. 

“North Pole?” Nadir asked. 

Philippe nodded. 

“Raoul has the chance to join an expedition to explore the North Pole. It’s not leaving for a while yet, but it’s been something he’s been thinking of.”

“There’s nothing like an adventure to clear the mind and lift the spirit,” Nadir mused. 

Raoul furrowed his brow. Should he go to the North Pole? There was nothing to stop him, now. But did it still sound appealing? At that moment, nothing sounded appealing. It certainly didn’t help that his mind still felt so fuzzy from the previous night, and he realized that he might in fact be still drunk just as Nadir had said. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Philippe patted his shoulder. “But it’s an option, and I’ll support whatever you decide.”

“Thanks,” he murmured. 

“In the meantime, why don’t we find a cafe and get some breakfast?” Nadir stood. 

“That sounds like a grand idea,” Philippe agreed, and as he stood up he hauled Raoul to his feet. 

The sudden movement proved to be too much for the boy, however, and he doubled over and retched. 

Philippe and Nadir winced and glanced away. 

“That’s alright,” Philippe patted him encouragingly. “That happens sometimes.”

Nadir was secretly glad that he hadn’t taken them back to his own flat. 

Raoul straightened up, embarrassed. He ran the back of his sleeve across his mouth and cleared his throat. 

“I’ll be ready for breakfast in just a minute,” he informed them. 

He didn’t know what, exactly, the future held for him, but for the moment he was going focus on getting a good meal and not throwing up again, and that seemed like a pretty good start. 

Once out of the doctor’s office, Erik hailed a cab and requested the quickest route possible to the opera house. They were both quiet as they rode back, each consumed with their own thoughts. 

His hand absently strayed to the pocket with his bottle of pills. Could it really be that easy? Was he really going to be okay? He stared out at the passing scenery, not really taking anything in. 

Christine eyed Erik as he sat there, too deep in contemplation to notice her anxious gaze. He was staring off in the distance, probably still thinking about the visit with the doctor, but her mind was on something else entirely.

She licked her dry lips and moved a little closer to him. She could hardly be blamed, could she? They really had only been courting a very short while, and had been married for even less. 

“Erik-“ she whispered, her hands fidgeting nervously. 

He looked to her, and she placed a hand on his shoulder before leaning up to kiss him. He was surprised for a moment, but only a moment before he smiled and pulled her closer. 

She kissed him eagerly, thinking about the unfairness of how long she had spent unable to kiss him, and tried to make up for lost time. Besides, it gave her something to focus on instead of her nerves about being late for the show. 

She broke away and shyly ducked her head when she realized his intentions by the look on his face and by his wandering hands. 

“Just kissing?” she asked. “I only want to kiss right now... We can- _hmm_, later... After the show is over.”

He smiled kindly and pinched her cheek with affection. 

“My dear girl - of course. Do you really think I’m enough of a cad to make you do that in a place like this?” he chuckled, then hugged her, making certain she couldn’t see the aura of disappointment that quickly settled on his demeanor. 

Still, there was nothing disappointing about kissing her. After a few moments more she pulled back, her brow knit in concern. 

“Can you take this off?” she asked softly, placing a palm on the cheek of his mask. 

He hesitated only a moment before complying - he had been able to feel how the hard material bumped and bit into her skin. 

She ran a hand up to his wig and looked at him meaningfully. 

“And this?” she whispered. 

His own brow crinkled with confusion. 

“You want me to?”

She bit her lip and gave a single nod. 

“Only if you want to.”

He placed the wig on the seat cushion with the mask and kissed her again. This time she let her hands thread through his hair, and he had to will himself not to cry over it. 

He broke away from her lips after a while and proceeded to kiss her neck. She squirmed and tilted her head for him to have better access. 

“What color was it?” she asked, running her fingers through his hair, entranced by this aspect of her maestro she had never seen before. “When you were-“

_younger_

She stopped herself before she said the word - hadn’t he told her that he didn’t like remembering how old he was? 

“Before it turned white, I mean. Was it black?”

Erik paused. 

“No. It was just a little darker than yours,” he gently tugged on a stray curl of hers, but her eyes remained fixed to his hair, trying to imagine Erik as a blond. 

“Hmmm.”

It proved to be a difficult task. 

She rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the fast but steady beat of his heart. 

“Christine,” he whispered, and her eyes met his. “Are you- disappointed?”

Her brow knit. 

“About your hair color?”

“No- about... Well, you were so certain that I was sick...”

She stared at him, trying to mask her disbelief - did he think she was disappointed that he was healthy? She loved him very much, but sometimes he really said the stupidest things. 

“I had wondered if perhaps you wouldn’t have been in such a rush to wed if you had known that I truly wasn’t about to expire...” he couldn’t meet her eye now, too ashamed and embarrassed. 

She pressed her lips into a thin line, thinking hard. What disappointed her was how often he second guessed himself, how quickly he doubted her affection. But she had known him for some time now, and she was aware that he would likely continue to have such moments, and that she would probably spend a great deal of time reassuring him and answering rather stupid and simple questions in the future as well.

“No,” she finally said. “I think I still would have married you, and soon, after I decided. But... when I thought you were- dying-“

She looked away. It was hard to talk about, even still. 

“It made me realize,” she went on. “It made me accept what I already knew in my heart what I wanted. I don’t regret how it turned at all, Erik. I would have always picked you, no matter what... Eventually. But being afraid of losing you is what made me brave enough to choose you. And I’m so glad I did.”

She ran a hand down his chest, quickly pulling it away when she felt the little glass jar of pills in his pocket. 

“I do have one regret, though,” she said quietly. 

He swallowed hard, bracing himself for whatever she was about to say. 

“What is it?” he breathed. 

She looked up at him, eyes sparkling, mouth grinning. 

“I regret that we didn’t do this sooner.”

She leaned up and kissed him before he even had a moment to let her words sink in, his face still puzzled. 

His mind eventually caught up and he hugged her tightly, a few tears escaping his closed eyes. 

Neither one could say how long they spent kissing, but eventually it gave way to him simply holding her. She clung to him, and after the last lingering thoughts of what he’d like to do after the show faded from his mind, he realized that she was awfully quiet. 

It dawned on him - she was nervous. 

“Christine,” he said gently. “What’s wrong, my sweet? Tell Erik what’s bothering you.”

She smiled just a little despite herself. He knew her so well. Kissing had been a wonderful distraction from her nerves about the show, but really - they couldn’t just kiss _forever_ \- that sounded like a recipe for either sore lips, or frustration that they didn’t have enough privacy for more, or both. 

“I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble for leaving how I did... and that we won’t make it back on time...”

She had been hesitant to tell him lest he blame himself, but she didn’t want to hide things from him. 

He paused for a moment. 

“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “Since the Ghost is blame for Christine having to leave, then maybe the Ghost can also ensure that she doesn’t get in trouble?”

He searched her face questioningly. 

She didn’t know what to think of that. It made sense, in a way - she had earned her current role, and if Erik had caused her to compromise that, shouldn’t it be up to Erik to make certain she still had what she had earned? And yet-

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt...” she shook her head. 

“No one will get hurt,” he assured her, reaching out to twine a golden curl around his finger before he corrected himself- “No one will get _very_ hurt.”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“We can worry about that after the show tonight,” she sighed. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything, Christine,” he squeezed her. “Let Erik worry instead. I promised you we’d get back on time, and we will. Everything will go fine, and if it doesn’t, well- that’s not even option, because I promise it will go fine.”

She nodded, still quiet. 

“Are you still nervous, love?” he asked gently. 

She thought about it, and to her surprise, she found she wasn’t. There was something about his assurances that, no matter how unrealistic they seemed, always sounded as though they could never be anything but the truth. _Of course_ they would get back in time, of course everything would go well! How could it not?

“No,” she said simply. “I’m not.”

“That’s my good girl,” he kissed her cheek. “You’re going to be so wonderful tonight. I can’t even imagine all the good things the papers will say about you tomorrow. That the Populaire has stolen an angel, I’m certain.”

“Erik!” she laughed. 

“It’s true,” he insisted. “How else could they describe your heavenly voice?”

She gave a happy sigh as she cuddled closer to him. Heavenly. That’s how she’d describe what she felt right now, being there with him. How lucky she was to have not only a tutor who looked out for her but also a husband who cared for her so. 

“Erik - I love you more than anything,” she smiled softly. 

“Even when I tear your favorite chemise?” he mused. 

She looked up, eyes mirthful. 

“Oh, _especially_ then!”

He leaned down to kiss her again. She fisted her hands in his lapels. Maybe they truly _could_ kiss forever- 

Erik pulled away suddenly, concern coloring his features. 

“This- this isn’t the road to the Populaire,” he said, staring out the little window. 

She looked out the window at the unfamiliar road. 

“He took a wrong turn just a little ways back,” Erik’s voice was slightly higher than normal. “We’re not-“

He leaned forward, opening the window to shout at the driver, but remaining just out of sight as he settled his mask and wig back on. 

Christine bit her lip at hearing him practically berate the man, but she couldn’t deny that she was upset as well. 

The two men argued about which road would be shorter until finally Erik sat back down in a huff, pulling out his pocket watch and looking at the time. 

“_Shortcut_,” he grumbled. “All the nerve in the world to call this a _shortcut_-“

He stopped when he saw the pained look on her face. He cleared his throat. 

“This is just an annoyance, Christine, we will still make it,” he straightened his jacket. 

She nodded, looking away. 

She was too nervous to kiss now, preferring instead to simply hold his hand, which he squeezed. They sat in silence for a while, Erik pulling out his pocket watch to look at it every so often. 

“Don’t put your makeup on for the performance,” he said eventually. “That’ll give you extra time. They don’t need to see your face to hear you, and hearing you is the most important part.”

She pressed her lips together, her brow crinkling. She hated feeling rushed. 

“I’ll help you dress, if you need it,” he offered. He knew she almost never employed the assistance of a dresser like other stars did, choosing instead to arrive early and take her time getting dressed by herself, but having someone help her would definitely save time. 

“May- may I see the time?”

He showed her his watch and she regretted it, hiding her face in her hands. 

“They can’t start the show without you, sweet,” he said gently. “The fops in the audience will just have to wait a little while before the show can start. They’ll get over it, especially once they hear you.”

She nodded behind her hands and leaned on him. She was terribly nervous over it - she was almost certain they wouldn’t make it in time - but at least he was here with her. He settled an arm around her but said nothing. There was nothing much left to say - they get there when got there, and she would do her best to get out on stage at the right time, or at least as soon as she could. It didn’t really matter, because he didn’t need to say anything, not really - she would have known that any assurances that it would turn out okay would be false, anyway, and in that moment the single most comforting thing simply the presence of him there with her. 

It was still such a novel thing, this closeness to her angel. And yet somehow it seemed like it had always been there, just beneath the surface only waiting to be discovered. She had worried that things would be different between them after, and they were - but instead of any feared awkwardness, there was only a deep, abiding sense of peace that no matter what, they would be by each other’s side and face whatever stood in front of them together. She took a deep breath and her eyes fluttered open as she glanced up at her husband. She felt nearly unstoppable with him supporting her - if they arrived late to the Populaire and she got fired, well... Surely Erik could haunt another opera house and blackmail them into hiring her. She smiled a little at thought, wicked though it was. 

She would keep singing no matter what, and he would never leave her. The Angel of Music and her own song - surely as long as she had both of these, she could gracefully accept whatever life had in store for her. 

That thought did little to stop the sinking feeling in her chest, however, as they pulled up in front of the Populaire and sprang from the carriage, racing up the stairs to get to the back of the stage (they had given up on going to her dressing room, now not even having time to put her costume dress on). 

“You can still make it,” Erik said as they rushed down the hall, glancing at his watch nervously. “You still have a little time- if you can just make it on stage before the curtain-“

A soprano voice rang out and stopped them dead in their tracks. 

Christine blinked hard as her lip trembled. Carlotta was on stage - they could hear her from here. She was too late after all.


	31. Chapter 31

She felt a lump growing in her throat. That awful woman had taken her place! She had been able to perform once - just once! - and now Carlotta was back and they would no longer needed Christine. Who could have pictured that her first performance would also be her last? A little strangled squeak left her throat as tears began to course down her cheeks. 

For a brief, wicked moment, she wanted Erik to crash the chandelier down into the stage. And if Carlotta was underneath of it when it came down, well- 

She rubbed her hands at her eyes. She would never ask that of him, and once the thought and it’s temporary catharsis has fled, she was left with only shame at even having thought it. She choked on a sob. 

Erik was strangely still before he turned to her and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her head up at look at him. 

“Stop crying,” he ordered, but not unkindly. There was an icy glint in his eyes but even still she could tell it was directed towards the situation and not her. “We are going to your dressing room, and you are going to change.”

He grabbed her hand in his and turned on his heel, leading her down the hall. He was furious with himself. He had _promised_ her! She went to the ends of the earth for him, and he couldn’t even ensure she got to her job on time. He was a disgrace as a teacher, as a husband - as a man. 

She sniffled as they headed to her dressing room, trying her best to not cry anymore. She knew he was worried about her voice, but she didn’t see any point in going to her dressing room - they were much too late. Carlotta was already on stage. 

A small part of him wondered at himself stalking down the hallways he normally avoided so carefully - anyone could see him, here, but by some small stroke of luck there was no one around. 

Once inside her dressing room he slammed the door shut a little harder than he had intended. He turned the lock and then looked to Christine, who was standing in the middle of the little room, looking rather lost. 

“Put your dress on,” he managed to keep his tone gentle, at least. 

“She’s already- Erik, there’s no point,” she shrugged helplessly. 

He pulled the dress for the second act off the hanger. 

“She has to leave the stage during intermission, and then-“ he stopped, but the implication hung in the air. 

She turned her back to him, pulling her hair to the front of her and presenting the little buttons that ran down the back of her bodice to him. 

“Will you-?”

As he worked, Christine had the fleeting thought that he was oddly good at undoing all of the tricky little fastenings of a woman’s clothing, and she briefly had the absurd idea that perhaps he had undressed women before. 

“Warm up your voice,” he struggled to find the balance between strict tutor and loving husband as he gave the command. 

She began her warmups as he continued to remove her clothing, a task that started to become more difficult as more layers were removed and his fingers started to tremble. 

He pressed his lips together in a scowl, trying to concentrate. If it was difficult to find the right tone of voice to tell her to sing, it was even harder to try to remind himself of how important it was to get her on stage when she was standing before him so, stripped to her chemise by his own hands. He peeled off her corset, eyes memorizing the way the thin fabric underneath hugged her every curve. His fingers twitched, begging to be buried in all of the softest parts of her, but he refrained. After the show had ended, surely - she’d said herself in the carriage! 

He cleared his throat, glancing up to the mirror to see their reflection there, him hovering behind her with a frown that bordered on a pout, the way her brow arched in a silent question of why he looked that way as she continued to warm up her voice. 

He turned away and grabbed the specially made corset for the costume, placing it around her and pulling her just a little closer than strictly necessary as he hooked it into place. Unable to deny himself, he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. She paused just a moment, smiling. 

Time seemed to stretch out in the span of that kiss, and he cursed the very existence of opera that was currently keeping him from enjoying his young bride. 

With great effort, he pulled himself away. 

“Put your dress on,” his voice was a little too loud, his tone bordering on offended, as though it were an insult to find her here so scandalously unclothed. 

He paced for a moment as she pulled the dress on, trying to will his pants into feeling less tight. 

He helped her with the fasteners on the back of the costume, and then with pinning her hair back to prepare for the wig as she put her makeup on. 

She met Erik’s eye in the mirror as the sound of applause seeped through the walls - intermission was starting. A fleeting expression of fear ran across her features, and she patted at her lipstick once more. 

“You’re ready,” Erik said softly, with certainty. 

She stood up and turned to face him, wrong her hands. 

“What am I to do?” 

“You will enter from stage left, not right,” he said, hovering his hands around her face, wanting to cup her cheeks but afraid of mussing her face powder. “You begin singing on your cue regardless of what else is going on, and you will appear on the stage thirty seconds before you’re supposed to.”

“Carlotta-“

“You will leave Carlotta to me. Do you understand?”

She nodded and was silent a long moment. 

“Erik-“ she bit her painted lip, then requested in a whisper- “Please don’t kill her.”

“Christine!” he chuckled a strange chuckle, one too high for her liking. “What do you take me for? Do you really think your Erik could kill a person?”

She frowned, her brow furrowing, and opened her mouth to reply when he held a single finger up. 

“Do not answer that, my dear,” he said gravely. 

She nodded again, a sad little smile on her face. She leaned forward on her toes, bracing her hands on his chest and stretching up to kiss him, but he leaned away from her. 

“You’ll smear your lipstick,” he fretted, and she sighed. 

“Stage left,” he reminded her as she was about to go out the door. “And sing on cue no matter what. Go out on the stage early and _do not leave_.”

“Yes, Erik,” she glanced back one last time before taking a deep breath and placing her hand on the doorknob. 

“Christine-“

She turned to see he wanted, not realizing that in the span of a second he had already closed to the distance between them. He stooped to kiss her mouth, lipstick be damned, and she smiled when he pulled away. 

“You’re going to do wonderfully,” he murmured, and then disappeared through the tunnel behind her mirror. 

Christine received a number of confused glances from the stagehand as she stood near the curtain behind the stage. She shrugged apologetically at the man but didn’t leave. Erik’s words to go on stage early still rang in her mind, almost drowning out the sound of the orchestra preparing to end the intermission. She was still nervous over what Erik might do, and she could only hope that it wouldn’t end in a horribly embarrassing - or illegal - way. 

The music began, and the curtain drew back. While the other actors were already onstage, her own character would be starting her song off the stage before making her entrance. 

Her cue happened, and she began to sing. 

She could see Carlotta on the other side of the stage, and she realized that Carlotta could see her, too - especially since they were both singing the part. 

Carlotta, not expecting this, faltered. 

Christine stepped forward on to the stage, feeling awfully awkward about it all. 

Piangi turned, confused - what was Christine doing here? In costume? Singing? And early? He glanced over at the wings towards stage right, where he was expecting Carlotta to be coming from. 

Carlotta was fuming. How dare that little wretch show up! 

She stepped forward to go on stage on her proper cue, picking up where she had left off on the song, but her dress was stuck on a nail in the floorboard - or so it seemed. 

Erik was hiding in between layers of the curtain, having arrived far before Christine and successfully evading the stagehands. Holding his breath, he had stuck his foot out of the curtain and stepped firmly on the train of Carlotta’s costume. 

She stumbled just slightly before turning and pulling at the fabric of her enormous dress. She didn’t care if she had to tear it, not now - she needed to get on stage! 

Piangi stared with slowly growing horror at how Carlotta was struggling. He looked back at Christine, who was already on her mark, already singing so strongly. 

He knew what was coming next. He would reach out and clasp hands with the prima donna - whoever she may be - and they’d sing a duet before the scene changed. 

Carlotta managed to make it on stage by nearly falling on her face. In a moment of panic, Erik almost reached out and grabbed her arm, but he hesitated just a moment too long. 

Piangi felt like everything was going in slow motion. Should he wait for Carlotta? What the devil was going on? Christine held her hands out to him, smiling sweetly. He managed what he assumed was a smile of sorts. 

Carlotta was running out on stage, but she’d never make it on time for the cue. He turned to Christine and took her hands, beginning the duet. 

Carlotta paused, glancing with disgust at how Christine had taken her place, and then with wide eyes at the audience who could most definitely see her before turning and running back where she had come from. How mortifying! 

Christine felt like she was in a dream as the show went on, a dream that she’d wake from at any minute, but a dream she desperately needed to finish before she awoke. She was expecting at any moment that Carlotta would run back out and shove her into the orchestra pit, or she’d take a page from Erik’s book and drop a sandbag on her head. It was nerve wracking. 

But then the show ended and Carlotta had not come back, and Christine was taking her bow on stage and she had finished. She marveled at the fact that she had - it hardly seemed real. 

After she left the stage she went directly to her dressing room, not wanting to discuss anything with anyone (anyone who wasn’t Erik, at least), but she had little to worry about in that regard - Piangi left immediately to go find Carlotta anyway. 

Erik was waiting for Christine when she turned around from locking her dressing room door. 

“What’d you do to her?” she asked instantly. 

“She’s fine, Christine - she’s fine,” he assured her, then paused guiltily. “She’s _mostly_ fine.”

“Oh, Erik!” she dismayed. 

“Well, she’s still alive, at least!” he grumbled, straightening his jacket. 

“What’d you do to her?” she put her hands on her hips. 

“I merely tripped her just a little, that’s all,” he shrugged, then looked down at his feet. “How was I to know her foot was still so bad?”

Christine put her hands over her mouth. 

“She could still walk...” he defended himself. “She needed two stage hands to carry her, but she could stand... _Mostly_.”

She groaned. 

“If I hadn’t done something she was liable to go back on stage and oust you somehow. I didn’t _mean_ to permanently injure her...”

“She’s permanently injured?! Christine squealed. 

Erik looked at her for a long moment, his gaze steady. 

“That is for a doctor to decide, Christine,” he finally said. 

She huffed. 

“You were brilliant tonight,” he changed the subject, his eyes lighting up. “Truly brilliant.”

She pressed her lips together, slowly shaking her head. 

“I only tripped her a little, Christine!” he protested. “Just a bit!” 

“Oh, Erik,” she sighed. 

“Do you forgive me, Christine?” he asked stiffly. 

“I do,” she fell into his arms and he hugged her tightly, sighing. “Just- don’t trip her again, okay?”

“We shall see,” he mused. 

“Erik!”

He cut off any further admonishment by kissing her, and she melted into his arms. 

When she finally pulled away she worried at her lip with her teeth. 

“Erik, I’m- I’m exhausted,” she started. 

He nodded a little, understanding but still slightly disappointed - he knew what she was likely getting at. 

“I’m too tired to go all the way to your house... Do you think, maybe,.. Do you want to spend the night with me in my dormitory?”

Erik paused. 

“Men are strictly forbidden in the women’s dormitories,” he reminded her. 

“You’re not just a _man_,” she played with his lapel, too shy to meet his gaze. “You’re my _husband_, and besides - if we leave right now we can get there before anyone else is around. And then we can get up early and you’ll sneak out before anyone else wakes up...”

He pulled her flush against his body and growled in her ear, “I think you’ll find, my dear, that your husband is most definitely a _man_...” 

She giggled and squirmed in his hold. 

“_Please_, Erik-“

“As you wish, Christine,” he murmured against her neck, and his long fingers began unhooking the costume. 

For a moment she was worried that they were in danger of not actually make it to her dormitory at all, of becoming too distracted and losing track of time, but Erik busied himself with hanging up the dress once it was off of her, and when she had finished taking off her wig Erik was there with her day dress for her to put on, and they were ready for her dormitory in less than fifteen minutes. 

“Why couldn’t you have simply had a tunnel to my dormitory room?” she sighed a little as they walked down the hall, trying to not be noticed by the handful of people about. 

“Christine,” he looked put out. “You _want_ me to have a way to spy on you in your private room?”

She raised and eyebrow. 

“Perhaps.”

As they drew closer to the dormitory, the hall became deserted. No one would know he was there. She breathed a sigh of relief as she locked her little door and then turned to face him. 

He was trying to make an effort of taking interest in her room, of the little drawings and mementos she had pinned to the wall, but she could tell he was focused on something else. She turned from him and opened a dresser drawer, intending to pull out a nightgown. 

A thought occurred to her. 

“Oh,” she said, a little regretful. “I’m sorry- I didn’t even consider- you, ah, you won’t have any sleep clothes...”

He bridged the minuscule distance between them in the little room, pulling her into his embrace. 

“That’s alright,” he said quietly, his voice low. “I won’t be needing them, anyway.”

He kissed her cheek as he closed the dresser drawer before she could retrieve the item she was looking for. 

“And,” he continued. “Neither will you-“

Christine proved she wasn’t _too_ exhausted by how quickly she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, and Erik couldn’t contain the grin on his face as he likewise divested her of her own clothing. In truth, he had been looking forward to moment since the end of their last intimate experience together. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Christine dimly hoped that her cot could withstand what was about to happen on it - it really was a rather rickety thing, and she could only imagine the shame and horror that would follow if it simply collapsed and the other girls came to her to door to inquire if she was okay. 

But luck smiled on them that night - by the time they finally fell asleep - truly exhausted at last - the thing was still standing and no one had knocked on her door. 

The next morning, Christine blinked awake in her dormitory bed, feeling that something was different but at first she was unsure of what. 

Her eyes widened as she realized that she was not alone. 

Erik was far too tall for her little bed, far too much, and it had necessitated him to sleep in a rather odd position. He was still fast asleep, his legs intwined with hers, his nude body very nearly draped over hers. 

He was an almost stifling presence, practically dominating the entire room and not just the little cot. Despite the usual chill his body held, the proximity to him and how he was holding her made her feel rather sticky and overheated. 

She pushed back the blanket in hopes of some relief, then felt her face grow hot as she made two more realizations, finally feeling fully awake. She was, in a technical sense, still wearing her chemise, thought it now covered precious little - it had become rucked up past her hips, and the front had been unbuttoned. It was that undone chemise that allowed for the second cause of her blush - even while deeply asleep, Erik had a hand still clutching possessively at her naked breast. She wondered if she’d ever get used to waking up in such situations. 

He groaned as he awoke, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Your bed is terrible,” he complained. “A literal coffin is more comfortable.”

She laughed softly. 

“Now you know why I prefer to not sleep here,” she teased. “The bed in your house is so much better.”

“Hmm. And here I thought you stayed with me simply because you preferred my company,” he gave her breast a gentle squeeze. 

She squirmed a little under his touch, her cheeks turning pink. He really hadn’t removed his hand since the previous evening. 

“I mean it, Christine - my poor back is aching. I don’t think I can even move my shoulders.” 

“Oh, poor Erik,” she pouted playfully. “I guess your wife will have to help you with that... I’ll rub your poor back until feels better better, how does that sound?”

He sighed deeply. 

“If there’s no other way, I suppose...”

She snickered and tried to turn more to face him, her thoughts growing somber. 

“Do you think the managers are very mad at me?” she whispered. “I’m sure Carlotta is...”

“Carlotta doesn’t matter, Christine,” he replied, eyes roving over her. “And let me deal with the managers.”

“It’s silly, I know, because I’m sure I could get job elsewhere, but I- I!” she stuttered, suddenly flustered by Erik pulling down her chemise and exposing both of her breasts. She swallowed hard. “I- don’t w-want them to think I’m untrustworthy or flighty...”

He hummed in reply to show he was still listening, even though his intense unblinking gaze was focused only on the soft flesh under his hand, fascinated by the way it reacted to his cold touch. 

“I need to show I’m a dedicated performer,” her voice wavered only slightly at his ministrations. “No amount of talent will mean anything if they think I’ll just run off right before a show.”

“We’ll figure something out,” he murmured, distracted. 

“_Erik_,” she squirmed. 

He paused, finally meeting her eye and holding her gaze as his touch turned from merely curious to purposeful. 

She stifled a squeak of surprise as he moved overtop of her, his knees on either side of hips, caging her in on the small bed. He bent down to eagerly kiss at her neck, drawing giggles from her, and his snaked one hand up to cover her mouth much in the same manner he had employed the previous night when she was in danger of becoming too loud. 

Despite their sole focus on their own activities, they both heard the voice just outside the door. They froze, eyes wide, breath bated. 

There shouldn’t have been anyone out there, unless-

She pulled his hand away from her mouth. 

“What time is it?” she asked in a panicked whisper. 

He struggled to reach his pocket watch, which he had left on the little nightstand, and fumbled with it until finally his shaking fingers managed to open the cover. 

He stared at the time with mounting horror, then turned the watch to show her. She clapped her own hand over her mouth. 

The conversation - for there were two voices now - still went on just outside her door in the little common room between all the girls’ private rooms, and it was no wonder that the rest of the girls were up and about by now - Erik and Christine had overslept by hours.


	32. Chapter 32

The shock faded after a moment. 

“Erik! We overslept!”

“Hm. I’m not surprised,” he tried to exit the bed without stepping on her. “After all, I seem to remember _someone_ didn’t want to go to sleep on time in favor of _other_ activities-“

She gasped at his accusations. 

“That was you!” she protested. 

“-and as such that wanton minx kept us up all night.”

“You’re talking about yourself!” she pushed at him and tried to squirm away from him, but she was grinning. 

He finally managed to stand and began to hastily dress, convinced that at any moment some chorus girl was going to barge in and see him shamefully nude. 

Christine similarly stumbled out of bed, reaching for her clothing. She was only momentarily distracted by trying to look at her husband, noticing how even still he tried to cover himself, whether to preserve his own modesty or her supposed innocence or both, she wasn’t certain. She shook her head and straightened her chemise, buttoning it back up before attempting to pull her dress on. 

Erik, who was putting his mask on, took a step towards her. 

“I can help,” he offered. 

“You’ve helped enough!” she tried to keep her voice low as she frowned, clutching her dress to herself. 

He chuckled sheepishly at this. In truth, she was peeved at herself for asking to stay him in her dormitory the previous night. She had been very tired, yes - but in all honesty she had still had enough energy to go downstairs to Erik’s house... or else enough energy to spend doing something else with Erik, but not both. Still, as much she regretted the outcome that was unfolding in front of them as a result from their past choices, she couldn’t bring herself to regret what they had done after that choice of staying in the dormitory was made. 

“Maybe they’ll go away,” she whispered as she went up to the door and pressed her ear against it. 

Another voice joined the two in the common area. Christine stifled a groan. 

“How are we going to leave now?” she sighed. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

“Christine,” Erik’s brow was furrowed. “Christine if they see _me_... They can’t- I don’t want them to see my mask- they’ll all _talk_-“

Christine chewed her lip, thinking. 

“If we could only hide you, somehow...” she trailed off, her eyes searching the room for ideas before falling to the little cot. 

He followed her line of sight. 

“I’m sorry about your sheets,” he murmured awkwardly. “I can wash them for you...”

She wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at him. 

“I should hope so, because I certainly can’t think of any way to explain that stain to the washerwoman.”

She had been caught off guard the previous night when he’d pulled back from her in the midst of their lovemaking, had been even more surprised when he’d spilled his seed on her stomach, and then absolutely mortified when he had grabbed the corner of her sheet to wipe it off of her. He had apologized profusely afterwards, showering her with kisses and compliments, and she had understood why he had done it, but she still felt nothing could remove the awkwardness from that moment. 

She only hoped, now, that something could remove the stain from her sheet. 

“_But_-“ she said slowly. “If we put a sheet over you... They wouldn’t recognize who you are or see your face...”

“I’ll look ridiculous-“

She waved a hand. 

“If we’re quiet enough they won’t even look over at us!”

She picked the sheet up, pointedly ignoring a certain corner, and held it out to him. He stooped down with a small sigh, and she tossed it over his head. 

“I can’t see.”

She huffed. 

“Well, I’ll just have to lead you. It’ll be fine.”

“It is preferable to the possibility of my mask being seen,” he mused. 

She took his hand and led him to the door. She carefully, quietly opened the door, listening closely to the girls outside. She stuck her head out of the door and glanced towards the common room - if they saw her, she’d have to go out and distract them while Erik snuck out. But they weren’t even looking in her direction, and they were far too absorbed in their own conversation to even notice that she was there. 

She breathed a sigh of relief. 

“It should be fine,” she whispered back to Erik. “Let’s go.”

He nodded under the sheet. She turned back to glance at the girls one last time before venturing out. 

There was the sudden sound of a _smack_ directly behind her. 

She looked in confusion and realized she had led Erik straight into the doorframe. He righted himself immediately and joined her in the hall, but to her horror, the other girls had heard the noise, too. 

She stood there, holding a sheet-covered Erik’s hand, and stared at them with a white face full of shame and wide eyes full of regret as they stared at her with various expressions of shock and horror and disbelief. 

Colette’s jaw dropped. Meg brought her hands to her mouth in surprise. Francesca pointed. 

There was absolutely no hiding that the figure under the sheet was distinctly masculine, despite how he stooped over to disguise his true height. His arm and his hand as held onto her hand were the only things visible of him besides his legs and feet, and those were enough. 

Christine had done what so far none of them had done before - she had brought a _man_ to the dormitory. 

It took less than a second, but it felt like an eternity to her. She turned quickly, pressing her lips together, and pulled Erik with her down the hallway. There was no escaping unnoticed - now all that mattered was escaping. 

“I _told_ you I heard someone in there with her last night!” Colette shoved Francesca. 

Christine thought she’d burst into flames right then and there. She quickened her pace, and Erik followed obediently behind. 

They met no other people on the way to Box Five, but it was little comfort to Christine. 

She slammed the door behind them and leaned against it, covering her face with her hands. Once inside the Box, Erik pulled the sheet off of him and straightened his jacket. 

“That, ah- that was not our finest moment, was it?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. 

She groaned loudly. 

“I should have just tried to distract them while you snuck out!”

He shook his head. 

“And if you failed to fully distract them? If they happened to turn and look my way? For them to see you with a man in your room is embarrassing - but for them to see a masked man coming from your room - if they were to connect the dots about the Opera Ghost and the stories told - Christine, I dare say we got off easily. You can recover from this - if they found out the truth about the whole situation - well, I don’t see how either of us could recover from that.”

They were both quiet. 

“You tell me if anything says anything hurtful, sweet,” he said tenderly after a moment. “I’ll see to it that get what’s coming.”

She studied him in the near darkness for a long while. It was beyond embarrassing to have everyone think that she had been off galavanting somewhere, missed the first act of the show she was staring in only to turn up and practically chase her replacement off the stage, and had then bedded a strange man in her dormitory room afterwards. But the truth of the matter - that the opera ghost was naught but a man, that she had known of his misdeeds for years and told no one, that she had _married_ him and he had mistakenly jilted her only for her to go find him and return him to the scene of his crimes? If all was found out, Erik would certainly go to jail, and just as likely she would as well for being his accomplice. 

While most stories of the Ghost told of a skeleton face, there were a few people who had actually seen his mask. If gossip traveled far enough... And gossip _always_ traveled here. 

Her brow knit as she pushed herself off of the door and took a few steps towards him. 

“Is your face okay?” she fretted. “It sounded like your mask hit my doorframe.”

“It will be fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ll always worry about you, Erik,” she said softly as she placed a hand on his arm. 

The solitude they were sharing here in the empty theater - and the possibilities of what they could do with such solitude - suddenly struck Erik. 

“Christine,” he whispered, threading his hand through hair and cupping the back of her head. 

He leaned in to kiss her but was interrupted by a knock on the door. They both froze. 

“Erik?” Nadir whispered just outside. “Are you in there?”

Erik stalked to the door and opened it. 

“_What_?” he hissed. 

Nadir took a step back. 

“Is Christine with you?”

Erik opened the door a little wider so Nadir could see her. 

“Now, what do you want?” he snapped, and Christine smiled in an embarrassed way - she’d have to speak to him about how he treated his only other friend at some point. 

“It’s not what I want - but I heard that the managers are looking for Christine because they want to speak with her urgently,” he explained. 

Erik’s face went blank. He’d gotten Christine in trouble, he just knew it. 

“What about?” Erik finally asked. 

Nadir shrugged. 

“I’m not sure, exactly. But there’s a handful of girls looking for her to relay the message. What the managers want to say - I’m not certain.”

Erik cleared his throat nervously and fidgeted with his cravat. 

“Thank you, Daroga,” he said stiffly. 

Nadir nodded, looking a little worried, and turned to go as Erik closed the door again. 

He faced Christine as well as he could, regret written across his face. She was biting her lip, trying hard not to cry. They both stood there a moment, too overwhelmed to say or do anything. 

Perhaps it really had been wishful thinking that her absence would pass without note. 

“Do you want me to listen in?” he asked quietly. 

She shook her head, looking away. 

“No, it’s alright.”

“Will you come back and tell me what they say?” 

She nodded. 

“Okay.”

“You don’t have to go right now,” he offered. “If you need a little time to gather your thoughts-“

“I think I’d rather get it over with,” she said weakly. 

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath and made to leave. 

He felt sick over it all. If she hadn’t come looking for him, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She’d have been in the show on time and Carlotta never would have shown up. If she got fired- if this negatively affected her career- 

She would come to resent him, he knew she would. Maybe not right away, but one day. 

“Christine, wait,” he stopped her before she left.

To her surprise he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him until her back was against his chest. Her breath caught in her throat as she anticipated him to take it one lewd step further - to grope her or press his manhood against her bottom - but all he did was simply hold her there like that for a long moment. Her heart was touched at the gentle gesture. He rested his cheek on her head.

“It’s my fault you missed your show, sweet,” he murmured to her. “That’s why no matter what they end up telling you, I swear to you I will set this right.”

“Oh, Erik...”

“I’ll burn this very place to the ground, if you ask it.”

She smiled wryly. 

“Let’s see what they say, first.”

He let go of her and she left to go speak with the managers. He stayed behind, staring at the door she had left through. It was what he had always feared would happen - that if he was ever anything more to her than a tutor, he would cease to be a good tutor and instead become consumed with his new role in her life. He ran a hand over his face. Now more than ever he had to do what was right by her - and that included what was right for her career. He very nearly went to listen from inside the walls regardless of what she had said, but he found the self restraint to refrain from doing so. He paced in the Box instead, anxiously awaiting her return and already plotting revenge on the entire opera house. 

Christine tried to look inconspicuous as she made her way through the opera house. She passed a few employees as she slowly drew closer to the managers office, and she couldn’t tell if it was mere guilty conscience or actual fact, but she could have sworn everyone was looking at her funny. And not just ‘missed the first act but played in the second’ funny - no, every look and glance felt like they knew _exactly_ what she had been doing with Erik all night long, as clearly as if they’d done on stage for all to see. 

Panic rose up in her throat. _Did_ they know? Had word spread that fast? Was _that_ what the managers wanted to talk to her about? She wrung her hands nervously. 

Between that and showing up late - they would be more than justified in firing her. She had broken contract about being on time and also about not having male visitors in the dormitory. 

Her eyes stung as she thought about it. Had some small part of her wanted to sabotage her success? She knew the penalty for her actions. She tried to steady her pulse as she stopped outside the door that would lead to her fate. 

She knocked politely, surprised at how quickly it opened. 

A frowning Andre ushered her into the room, and she was shocked to see Carlotta there too. 

Carlotta, sniffling theatrically and dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, her ankle propped up on a box they had been forced to find to accommodate her injury. She looked at Christine and whined before turning away. 

Christine felt her anxiety turn to annoyance. Carlotta was clearly acting, and if she wanted to play that game, then so would Christine. 

“Sit, please,” behind the large mahogany desk, Firmin motioned to a chair next to Carlotta. 

Christine sat as primly as she could in the chair, stifling the _oof_ that nearly escaped her mouth when she sat too hard. The lack of space in her cot had forced Erik to become _creative_ in his endeavors and the positions he wanted her in, and she was still feeling the after effects - that man had expected more flexibility of her than her former ballet mistress. 

Firmin ran a hand through his hair and sighed as he stared down at a pile of papers scattered across the desk. 

The women waited for him to speak, Christine growing more annoyed with how Carlotta cringed way from her as though she had been the one to trip her last night. 

Christine couldn’t help but notice that one of the papers was the newspaper which mentioned her disappearance. 

Andre continued to pace the room, deep in thought. 

“I don’t know what happened last night, and I want to know,” Firmin finally said. 

“I was sabotaged!” Carlotta wailed. “I only wanted-“

“I was stuck in traffic-“

Firmin raised a hand to silence them both. 

“One at a time, please!”

Carlotta and Christine glared at each other. 

“I did everything in my power to get here on time-“

“This little toad deserted her role-“

They spoke again at the same time and Firmin sighed. 

“Enough! I will ask the questions, and you will answer.”

They both nodded. 

Firmin rubbed at his face, clearly overstrung. 

“Mlle Daaé, do you realize the seriousness of your not showing up on time? If Carlotta hadn’t been here - no star means no show, and no show means no opera house.”

“Yes, Monsieur, I understand,” she said earnestly. “I’ve never been late before, so you must understand that it was only something of the utmost importance that kept me from showing up.”

“La Carlotta - you disobeyed the director and your doctor by showing up last night, and potentially jeopardized your future ability to be prima donna by jeopardizing the stability of your ankle. I would be more inclined to be upset with you if not for the fact that your disobedience saved us from certain disaster last night.”

She smiled sweetly, toying with her handkerchief. 

“I just love the opera so much, Monsieur. I cannot stand to see the youths disrespect our lovely art like this,” she waved a hand in Christine’s direction. 

Andre stopped his pacing and opened his mouth to say something, looking as though he were on the edge of an epiphany, but then he frowned and began pacing again. 

Firmin flipped through a number of papers, agitated. 

“Do you have a husband, Mlle Daaé?” he asked suddenly, frowning at one of the papers. 

She took in a breath, feeling the eyes of Carlotta and Andre on her. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“Well good heavens, girl - this is the first we’re hearing of it!” Firmin spluttered. 

“Is this going to affect your work?” Andre mused. 

“No, not at all- it hasn’t before last night,” Christine defended. 

“And just how long have you been married?” Firmin asked, his brow wrinkling. 

Christine looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. 

“Since I was nineteen.”

Carlotta’s eyebrows flew up. The men were quiet a long moment. 

Christine hated to lie, but she felt it could be viewed as the truth if one looked at it a certain way. She’d known Erik as a man since she was nineteen. 

“No one even realized before I mentioned it the other night,” she continued, thinking of how she had run off crying that she needed to find her husband. “I’ve managed to keep focused on my career despite being married for nearly five years now, and I highly doubt anything like that will come up again.”

“I am married to my art,” Carlotta offered, but the managers were ignoring her. 

“What _did_ come up?” Firmin asked. 

Christine looked away again. 

Another lie, perhaps, but she tried to make it as truthful as she could. 

“He was injured,” she said quietly. “And I just found out that evening. I had to go and see him in the hospital and make certain he was okay.”

“_I_ was injured, too,” Carlotta rearranged her ankle on the box, trying to catch the eye of Andre or Firmin and failing. 

“But he’s fine now, and everything should be back to normal,” Christine finished. 

“Normal,” Firmin sighed. 

“It’s not bad, Firmin,” Andre insisted. “It could work.”

Firmin glared at him. 

“The fact of the matter is,” Firmin said. “This was not the true reason we asked you both to be here. There is something else we must discuss.”

Carlotta and Christine exchanged looks. This was a surprise to both of them. 

Firmin seemed to lose his nerve, and Andre took his place behind the desk while he began to pace instead. 

“This really is the most unorthodox situation,” Andre said, looking considerably more excited than his partner. “You both must understand, we only want to do this with the utmost respect for you both. La Carlotta, I know you have a contract as prima donna, but a new opportunity has presented itself, and I must implore you to consider-“

Christine didn’t return to Erik in Box Five for over an hour. When at least she did slink in, she looked sheepish and conflicted, as though she didn’t know how to tell him the results of the conversation. 

Erik sprang up from his seat, taking in her face. 

“Oh, Christine,” he breathed. “It’s alright, my dear - we can go anywhere you wish. Milan, Prague, Moscow- you name it and we’ll go.”

“I didn’t get fired, Erik,” she smoothed out her skirts. “In fact, so many people were so intrigued by what had happened, they all wrote to the managers with their opinions on who should be prima donna from now on, and apparently we both had quiet a lot of support...”

“Oh?”

“It took a while to get Carlotta to agree, but - we’re going to rotate. Carlotta will do one performance, I’ll do the next, she’ll do the one after, and then me again.”

“Christine! Truly?”

She nodded, smiling. 

“And that’s not all. It seems there was a writer in the audience last night, too - and seeing both of on stage rather inspired him,” she looked slightly embarrassed. “So he’s writing a new libretto and having his partner write the music, and it’ll be done by the end of this season, or so he says.”

“What’s it about?”

She cleared her throat. 

“It’s about an innocent young woman and her rivalry with a fiery enchantress,” she repeated Andre’s description. “Carlotta and I will both be the leads, because it’s written for two prima donnas...”

Erik picked her up and spun her around. 

“My darling, that is wonderful!” he laughed. “Oh, you’ll be perfect for the part! It’s already so you! I know of no one else who could bring such a delicate innocence to the role - it’ll be so easy, you’ll hardly have to rehearse at all!”

“That’s just it, Erik,” she gave a lopsided smile. “I’m not going to be the maiden. They already decided to cast me as the enchantress.”

Erik reeled back and sat heavily in the chair, groaning.


	33. Chapter 33

Erik bemoaned the terrible casting choice the entire carriage ride back to the hotel. 

“That man has no sense, Christine,” he fumed. “Carlotta will fail spectacularly, and by extension, so will you! The absolute nerve of him, to give her a role that rightfully should have been yours!”

“I know, dear, I know,” she murmured and patted his hand, leaning her head on his shoulder. 

“It’s just- it’s not right! Was he even paying any attention at all to what he saw on stage?” he flailed his free hand about. 

“Mmm, horrible,” she sighed. 

Her plan was slowly working as he became more and more distracted by her next to him, slowly forgetting his rage and distaste in favor of paying attention to her. 

He cleared his throat, trying to focus his mind. 

“It’s a travesty, that’s what it is,” he tried again to rally the fury that was swiftly fleeing him as she played his hand, walking her fingertips across his knuckles. 

“Its a work in progress, Erik,” she reminded him gently. “He might, er, see reason, yet. What’s important is that we didn’t get in trouble...”

She cast a sidelong glance up at him. 

“_For anything_,” she added. 

He grimaced. She was right. Although the managers had taken the news of her marriage in stride, he knew that she hadn’t had a chance to explain much of anything to any of the girls who had seen them. Heaven only knew what the current gossip about her was. He took her hand in his and squeezed it. 

“You won’t have to stay in the dormitory very much longer, anyway,” he told her apologetically. 

She nodded. Moving out seemed like such a huge step, like leaving an old chapter of her life behind, but it thrilled her even as it terrified her. She already practically lived with Erik, but relinquishing her dorm room felt like it was finally making it official and final. She was someone’s wife - no turning back now. While she didn’t consider herself a particularly young woman - or at least, not as young as she used to be - she wondered if this was what it felt like to grow up, and if perhaps the growing up never really stopped. She’d considered herself quite grown up as she’d had to care for ailing Papa and then for Mamma Valerius when she was ill, and then as an older teen when she had first moved into the dorms. And then as she’d come to terms to her feelings for Erik - and now as she was on the precipice of moving into her own house. She thought about what might be in the future for them, what events might come along and change their lives once again to make her feel like her previous life up until that had been but a simple childhood that she had outgrown. 

He was speaking about something regarding the design of the latest building he was working on with Bernard, but she closed her eyes as she leaned against his arm and tried to imagine some of those events. Maybe when they had a child - or more than one. When said child, or children, left to pursue their own lives. When she had to retire from the stage. When she had to bury Erik. 

Her forehead scrunched up and she squeezed her fingers into his arm at that last thought. 

“Christine?” Erik asked, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her eyes, realizing that she’d hardly heard anything he’d been talking about. 

“Nothing,” she whispered. 

He studied her a moment longer, not believing her. Had he done something wrong? He’d been telling her about the latest styles coming out of America, and their influence on his current work... Perhaps she preferred a more classical look? Or was it something else? 

“Tell me about our house,” she said suddenly, wanting to put certain other thoughts out of her mind. 

Erik shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t seen the house yet, and he hadn’t consulted her in any of the stylistic choices... He hoped she’d like it. 

“It’s completely ready to move into. It just needs furniture... And a woman’s touch,” he chuckled a little. 

She made an interested noise. 

“We’ll have to divvy up some of the items from the house under the Populaire,” he mused. “But the rest we’ll need to buy.”

They’d talked on it only very briefly, but they’d planned to live in the house he’d built for her, though still keep the underground house for times when one or both of them needed to stay close to the opera house. 

But for the brief time being, they would be staying at the hotel until further arrangements could be made, particularly because of an early morning meeting Erik had with Bernard the next day. 

Before stopping at the hotel, Erik took her to a late lunch - or perhaps an early dinner. Tucked away in the corner of a restaurant, he raised his glass in a solemn toast before the meal. 

“To not getting fired,” his lips twitched into a wry grin, and she giggled as she raised her own glass. 

By the time they returned to the hotel, it was nearly dark out. Though she knew that she should get some rest, she still felt too keyed up from the earlier drama. She paced a little as Erik sat at the table and frowned at a few letters that had been slipped under the door while they were gone. 

She busied herself with starting a fire in the fireplace as he tore up one of the letters then raised an eyebrow at the other. Three matches were used and wasted, none of them catching despite her best efforts. She fiddled with the fourth match as she knelt on the hearth, pouting a little. 

“Light the smaller pieces, my dear, not the larger logs,” he murmured from his place at the table, watching her from the corner of his eye. 

She tried again, this time succeeding with his advice. She sat back on her heels, shaking her head. If there was one thing that man knew, it was fire. 

Erik watched her as she she stood, brushing out her skirts. He dropped the letter on the table, its contents suddenly no longer important. 

“Christine,” he drawled, licking at his dry lips. “Come here, sweet girl.”

A shiver went up her spine at that rich, dark voice that never failed to give her butterflies in her stomach, and she approached the table with a ducked head and burning cheeks. 

He reached an arm out to her to her, wrapping it around her waist and pulling her down to his level, making her sit across his lap as he kissed her deeply. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the feeling of giddiness at how easily she capitulated to his touch, how she complied to his every whim. She eagerly returned the kiss, melting into his arms. He removed one hand from her back to reach under her knee so he could pull her closer and make her straddle his waist. 

She flinched, an involuntary gasp leaving her lips. It was too similar a motion to how he’d moved her leg the previous night, and the bumpy carriage ride had done the strained muscle no favors. 

He stopped immediately, terrified by her reaction. 

“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously, searching her face. 

“I’m fine,” she wouldn’t look at him. “It’s okay.”

“Christine, are you hurt?” he slowly, gently tried to move her leg again, and she shifted uncomfortably. 

“Did I-“ he swallowed hard.

“It’s just a little strain, Erik,” she tried to placate him, both because she didn’t want to stop and also because she knew he wouldn’t handle the guilt of it very well, even though it had been an accident. 

“A strain?”

“It’s not a big deal,” she insisted. 

“Christine-“ he whispered, anguish and shame creeping into his voice. “Did I hurt you last night?”

“It was an accident, Erik,” she said softly. 

He let out a pained exhale, standing her up at an arm’s length away from him before standing up himself. He walked away from her, going to stand in front of the fire. 

He had hurt her. 

It was bad enough that he had done so, that he had caused her pain of any kind for any amount of time - but to have hurt her in the midst of doing _that_, of something so intimate and personal - he felt sick over it. In his quest to make up for a lifetime of celibacy, he’d expected too much of her, had been too rough with her. 

She came to stand behind him, placing a comforting hand on his back. 

“It’s not a big deal, Erik,” she murmured again. 

“Why didn’t you say anything last night?” he thought uncomfortably of the moments he’d put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. He had thought she’d been enjoying it all, but now- 

“I didn’t really notice last night,” she said sheepishly. “I was a little more focused on- well, certain other things.”

“You should have stopped me,” he was on the verge of tears. “If it hurts, you need to tell me to stop. Christine, I won’t know if you don’t say anything-“

“I will,” she promised him. “I’ll tell you.”

He nodded, not looking at her. 

“Besides,” she added carefully. “You didn’t really hurt me, not truly - I’m just not as flexible as I used to be, not since I stopped dancing. I didn’t even feel it all that much until today.”

“Hm,” he didn’t seem convinced. 

“You’ll have to warn me ahead of time,” she teased. “That way I can warm up beforehand.”

Despite how cavalier she was acting, he still felt absolutely vile. 

“Perhaps you’ll have to, ah, _assist_ me with my stretches, Monsieur,” she lowered her voice seductively. “Then I’ll be able to do whatever you wish of me...”

He turned from the fire and bundled her into his arms, holding her close. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Go get ready for bed, sweet,” he said gently. 

She left him with a small sigh and changed into her bedclothes. He seemed absolutely crushed over the whole thing, and she could only hope that it hadn’t affected him permanently. If the man swore off sex simply because of a little muscle pull caused by overeagerness, she was going to scream. 

Erik had also changed by the time she came out of the bathroom, and he was standing by the table and sorting papers while wrapped in his own robe. 

“Erik,” she said softly. “Your meeting is early tomorrow, you should come to bed.”

He reluctantly came to bed with her, hesitating as she scooted in close to him. He rolled to his side to face her, placing a hand on her waist and running it down over her hip and thigh. His yellow eyes glinted with concern in the near darkness of the room. 

“Can I do anything to make it better?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

She shook her head. 

“It’ll feel better tomorrow, probably. Tonight- just hold me,” she answered him just as quietly. 

He carefully pulled her against his chest. 

“Is this okay?”

“Perfect,” she sighed. 

To her contentment, she found that even a chaste activity such as this caused his skin to warm. She smiled at the sensation. The gentle crackle of the fireplace and the glow of the firelight, along with the safety of being in his arms, promised to lull her right to sleep. 

All at once she felt several cold spots touch her face - he was tracing his fingertips down her jaw. She gave a muffled squeak and snuggled closer to his chest. 

“You can’t even imagine how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he said quietly. “Of being able to be here with you, like this. I never thought it possible.”

She could have left it at that - sleep was already encroaching on her mind, her thoughts going fuzzy and soft at the edges. A nighttime confession spoken with love. But she had one of her own to make, too. 

“I used to dream about this too,” she admitted, and his fingers paused in their tracks as they skated over her face. “What it would feel like, to be with you. In your arms. Under your lips. I thought about it a lot.”

“A lot?” he breathed. 

“Oh, a lot,” she said shyly. 

“Oh.”

He peppered the side of her face with kisses as she squirmed and made little noises. 

“I love you Christine,” he murmured against her skin. 

“I love you, too, Erik.”


	34. Chapter 34

He was already awake by the time she woke, though he hadn’t moved from her side yet. He was gazing at her with such tender adoration that her heart did a flip. 

“What are thinking about?” she murmured into her pillow, blinking sleepily and smiling - she couldn’t wait to hear whatever sugar-sweet and eloquent words of love he had planned.

“I was just thinking,” he mused. “About how cute you look in the morning, when your hair is all frizzy like that before you brush it.”

She shot him a horrified glare before leaving the bed with a huff. 

“Ahh, what’s wrong? Where are you going?” 

“Go get ready for your meeting!” she frowned. 

He chuckled and got out of bed, following her into the bathroom where she was vigorously tugging a hairbrush through her curls. 

“And what will my little Christine do while her Erik is in his meeting, hmm?” he placed his hands on her shoulders, kneading them gently. 

“I’m not sure, really.”

She knew she wanted to avoid the opera house - she had the day off, anyway, and she didn’t think she could stand to face any of the girls at the moment. 

Erik snapped his fingers, an idea lighting up his face. 

“Why don’t you go shopping for the new house?” he suggested. “We need just about everything, really, and just about anything will fit. 

She considered it as they both began to dress for the day. 

“Don’t you want to shop for furniture, too? It’s half your house as well.”

He chuckled. 

“It’s eighteen rooms, my dear. I highly doubt you’ll furnish them all in a day.”

Her brow furrowed. 

“How much will you let me spend?”

She certainly couldn’t afford much on her own salary - her dorm was proof of that. 

He laughed as though he’d just heard the most absurd joke. 

“Christine! My money is your money, dearest - and I’m certainly not wanting for money. I want you to buy whatever you please and don’t worry over the price.”

She bit her lip and raised an eyebrow. Was he serious? 

“We’ll build a home to rival that Comte’s mansion,” he murmured, mostly to himself. 

Christine was about to remind him that he no longer needed to compete against anyone - he never had - when he turned his keen gaze towards her. 

“How’s your leg feeling?” he asked suddenly as he was trying his cravat. 

He was staring with intensity at what could generously be called her hip but might more accurately be called her crotch. She had the sudden urge to hide herself behind a throw pillow. 

“It’s- it’s better,” she stuttered. 

“Completely better?” he edged closer, still staring. 

She took a step backwards. 

“Erik!” she said, scandalized. “You’re going to be late for work!”

“Christine,” he tutted. “Can’t a tutor inquire over the health of his pupil without any ulterior motive?”

“Not when he’s looking at her like _that_,” she stood her ground as he approached and kissed her cheek. 

“Bernard will surely understand if I arrive late,” he murmured, kissing her again. 

“Tonight, not this morning,” she offered with a little smile. 

“I can be quick...”

Christine graciously chose to not comment, clearing her throat instead. 

“Tonight, Erik,” she promised, and kissed him. “Tonight.”

He left for the day with one last kiss, and Christine soon found herself out in the shopping center with an address to send the packages to and a purse full of money with no restrictions on how to spend it. 

It was an almost overwhelming prospect - she’d never truly shopped for a house of her own and was a little at a loss for what was necessary versus what was fashionable. Just because Erik’s money was her money didn’t mean she wanted to spend all her money on frivolity. 

Eighteen rooms bordered on excessive, in her opinion. She glanced down at the little note Erik had scrawled before leaving for his meeting, the one that listed the suggested rooms to help her decide how to furnish them. 

Two libraries, a dining room, a breakfast room, a solarium, three bedrooms, a guest room, a kitchen, a workroom, a room with specific acoustics that she could practice singing in, and several nondescript rooms whose purpose was still vague. 

By the end of her shopping trip, she was afraid she had caused quite a scene in the store - she inquired over the price of every object, but never let it deter her. Various shelves and dressers and soft padded chairs and gilded mirrors were purchased and were arranged to be sent to her new home, and after all was said and done she was certain that each and every sales persons was convinced that she must be some kind of royalty to order so much. 

She supposed, with a small sense of satisfaction, that perhaps she was, in a way. 

When at last she returned to the hotel room, Erik was still out. She fretted a little over the clock, wondering where he was. In his absence, she set about tidying the rooms like the dutiful wife she hoped to be. 

There wasn’t much to truly tidy in the few little rooms, however, so eventually her attention turned towards the papers from his work on the table. She was hesitant to sort them, or even to move them, lest she unknowingly disturb some order he kept them in, but she found herself too curious to simply ignore them. What drew her curiosity the most was a small pile of torn paper squares, what looked to be the remains of a letter. 

She spent the next quarter of an hour carefully piecing together the squares, and once completed, she began to read the letter. 

_M. Travers - I received the updated blueprints that M. Bernard sent over, and I regret to inform you that I found the changes most displeasing-_

The sound of the key turning in the lock made her jump, and she hastily mixed up the little pieces of the former letter once more before Erik entered. 

Her heart pounding from nearly being discovered at her task of reading his work papers, she slipped off the chair and rushed up to hug him in greeting, hoping he wouldn’t notice what she had been doing. 

He returned her hug with one arm, his other arm occupied with carrying two bags from his own apparent shopping trips. 

“Did you have a good day, sweet?” he asked as they walked over to the table together, his arm still around her. 

“I did. I want to go shopping with you next, though. And I want to see the house before I buy anything else for it!”

“What all did you buy?” he asked as he placed his bags on the table and headed to the bathroom to change out of his more restrictive work clothes. 

She told him of the things she had already ordered, practical things that she knew would be needed in any sort of house and could go nearly anywhere. 

“I bought towels, too,” she said sheepishly as she eyed the bags he’d left on the table. 

“Towels are good,” his voice floated to her from the other room. 

Biting her lip, she peered into the large paper bag to ascertain its contents. 

“You’ll have to pick your furniture for your rooms,” she said absently, too focused on learning what all he had bought. “How was work?”

He began to grumble about unruly customers, but still didn’t return, so she reached in and began to rifle about the first bag. Finding it contained several pastry boxes, she let it be and looked in the second one. A pretty shawl with a woven pattern that resembled peacock feathers, which she assumed was a gift for herself, and a large, flat book underneath of that, which appeared to contain illustrations of bridges from all over the world. Underneath of that was a box with a paper label pasted on the lid. It was roughly the size of a cigar box, perhaps a little bigger, and this made her frown. Erik hated cigars, he nearly had a conniption any time he saw anyone smoking, paranoid that the smoke was going to damage the voice of anyone who happened to catch the faintest whiff of it. 

She rearranged the shawl and book to get a better look at the box, squinting her eyes to read the label. 

_Genuine High Quality Vulcanized Rubber Prophylactics_

Her brow creased as she mouthed the last word to herself, trying to think of where she’d heard it before. 

All at once she realized what they were, and with a gasp she hurriedly rearranged the bag to its previous state. 

Erik entered the room as she stepped back from the bag, looking anywhere but at it, trying to will the fierce blush from her face. She dearly hoped that one day she’d become accustomed to seeing and thinking about such things without her face turning scarlet like a maiden’s who’d never kissed a man before, because she was swiftly realizing that being able to take the vulgar and the shocking in calm stride was going to be a great asset in married life with Erik. 

He narrowed his eyes at her as he approached, looking from her to the bag and back again. 

“Has Christine been sneaking a peek at Erik’s gift to her?” he asked, smiling. 

She looked up at the ceiling, pretending she hadn’t heard, pretending she wasn’t blushing. The prophylactics were a gift of sorts, too, in a way, though she supposed he was talking about the shawl. 

He reached into the bag and presented the shawl to her with a little flourish. 

“For you, sweet love,” he said tenderly. 

“Thank you, Erik,” she smiled, still not quite able to meet his eye. “It’s very lovely.”

He placed it around her shoulders, adjusting it so, taking stock of her expression as he did so. 

“Christine,” he said carefully. “Did you look in the bottom of the bag?”

Her eyes darted nervously about, landing on him for the briefest of seconds before fluttering away again. 

“Well,” she wrung her hands. “I was curious, Erik.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line and studied her. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. What he had bought was, in the strictest sense, illegal. In the broader sense, immoral. Had she changed her mind about them? 

“You told me you didn’t mind,” he said quietly. “On our wedding night, you it would be fine if I used-“

“It’s fine,” she rushed to say. “I just wasn’t expecting them there.”

He was silent a moment longer, trying to ascertain if she was telling the truth. 

“You don’t look like it’s fine,” he said, uneasy. 

She shot him a reproachful look. 

“For goodness’s sake, Erik!” she squeaked. “We haven’t even been married half a week! I’m not- I’m not used to discussing such things with a man!”

His brow furrowed as he listened to her - as if it weren’t bad enough that he had physically injured her with his desires, it seemed he had also overwhelmed her as well. 

She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. 

“I’m simply... new to it,” she struggled to explain. “I want all that with you, and I want you to use- _those things_, and I want to become used to it all but in the mean time-“

She rested her burning forehead against his chest. 

“In the meantime I’m still going to blush like a- a _virgin_,” she muttered, terribly embarrassed. “Even though you have... _bedded_ me...”

He stood there as she leaned against him, feeling out of place and uncertain what to do. He patted her on the back with an awkward hand as he let her words sink into his mind. 

Why, there was nothing wrong with her after all! Nor with him, or his desires - she was simply _shy_! 

Well, he would help her work that little problem out soon enough. 

He lifted her chin with a finger so he could look at her. 

“Did you look in the other bag, my dear?” he teased. “I think you’ll find that one’s contents a little more suitable to your delicate tastes.”

“Erik!” she huffed and shoved at him, annoyed, but then hugged him. 

They sat down together at the table and unpacked the pastries, speaking some more on the topic of their future furniture. Erik had pulled out a copy of the house’s blueprints and laid it out across the table, and she studied this as they sampled the various treats he had brought back. 

She couldn’t help but notice the room with the title scratched out - _nursery_. It kept drawing her eye and her imagination, but she didn’t mention it to him. She filed it away in her mind as conversation for later. 

Did Erik want to have children with her? This house was his fantasy of their life together, was it not? And he had included a nursery. Had he done so because he thought it would please her? Because he thought it inevitable? Or was there, perhaps, some part of him that truly wanted it too? 

She knew he’d have numerous issues and objections to the idea - his face, his age, her career, her health - but underneath all of that, what were his true wishes? If everything else were assured of turning out fine, would he want to be a father? It made her heart flutter to think of it. 

It was in the back of her mind the rest of evening, even later that night as he tentatively led her to the bedroom. It warmed her heart, the way had asked her cautiously “_Tonight?_”, with barely hidden hope in his eyes, and the gentleness of how he undressed her and took her in his arms. She wanted to do everything in the world with this man, and that included having a child with him. 

But not soon - and certainly not that night, especially as he pulled back in the midst of kissing her to fumble with the little box on the nightstand in an attempt to procure one of his latest purchases. 

She sighed a little and squirmed under the blankets - she missed the weight of him overtop of her. She glanced shyly over at him, but he was facing away from her as he sat on the edge of the bed, purposely blocking her view. 

“It’ll just take a moment, Christine,” he murmured as he glanced back at her. 

She smiled and closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into the mattress. She felt supremely content in that moment, and couldn’t wait for Erik to continue. She sighed happily again. 

“_Shit_,” Erik muttered under his breath. 

Her eyes fluttered open. This certainly seemed to be taking more than a moment, but she had no real frame of reference. She looked over at his back, dubious. Was everything going okay? 

“Is- is it okay?” she asked, her voice low. 

“It’s fine,” he insisted, but didn’t turn around. 

He cursed himself for not practicing this beforehand. Why was it so difficult? He snatched up the little piece of paper with the instructions, his frantic eyes scanning it once again. He was embarrassing himself in front of Christine! 

She rolled to her side and propped her head on her hand, watching him. Her brow furrowed. She’d heard all manner of talk from the chorus girls and ballet rats about condoms and what an annoyance they were, but surely this was bordering on an excessive amount of time to put one on. She chewed on her lip as she listened to the obscene sounds of his breathing and his hand against his own skin as his arm pumped up and down. 

“Do you need any help?” she asked weakly. 

His hand stilled and his shoulders hunched over as he cringed away from her, afraid she would see. 

“_Nooo_,” his tone bordered on whining. 

She raised an eyebrow and fell back against the pillow. 

Sleep nearly overtook her as she was considering telling him it was okay to stop, that he could just hold her again and they’d make up for it in the morning, when at last his steady stream of grumbled curses ended and she found him joining her under the blankets once more, kissing her deeply and waking her up. 

Afterwards, when it was finished, she noted how he carefully held the blanket down to keep her from seeing as he removed the prophylactic, chuckling in an embarrassed manner as he did so. As their breathing slowed, she nuzzled against his neck and whispered how much she loved him, wondering if maybe one day he’d let her look. She wondered if there was a reason beyond modesty that he didn’t want her to see him - had he been injured there at some point in the past? Was he- was he disfigured down there too? The briefest of glances she’d caught in the mirror the other day hadn’t uncovered anything too strange, at least not that she was aware of, and, she thought with another fierce blush, he certainly _felt_ just fine. She fell asleep in his arms, still pondering over the mystery of it all. 

“Christine,” he whispered. “Chris_tine_...”

She blinked awake, surprised by the scant sunlight that was filtering in through the half shut drapes. 

“Wake up so we can have breakfast together, sweet,” he smiled at her. 

She stretched and yawning, her hands then going to her hair to attempt to smooth it out lest he comment on its _frizziness_ again. 

She knew Erik had another meeting with Bernard that morning, and in the interest of extending their time together she simply wrapped herself in her dressing gown and joined him for leftover pastries at the table. 

At the table, Erik let his eyes rove over her hungrily as he pulled apart a chocolatine. He thought back to her previous words, about being unused to being intimate with a man, and tried to tell himself to _at least_ let her finish her breakfast before he risked overwhelming her by lifting her up to the tabletop and taking her right there. 

The look in his eye was unmistakable, however, and Christine definitely noticed. She looked away, still picking at her strawberry pastry, and wondered if at some point in the future his urges would begin to calm or if this was, in fact, going to be his permanent state now that they were married. She took a long sip of water to focus on something else. 

She’d have to ask Sorelli about all that. 

But she was not without her own _desires_. Erik was very nearly always tender with her, but there was no denying that he was a very powerful man. To have such a powerful man so enamored with her, to have him look at her like she was a glass of cool water to a man dying of thirst - it made her feel powerful, too. 

She reached a hand up to brush away some stray strands of hair from her face in what seemed at first a self conscious gesture, only to then let that hand fall slowly, idly across her cheek and down her neck and to her shoulder where the hem of her dressing gown lay. With all the boldness that befitted a woman of her profession, she casually, purposefully pushed the sleeve down her shoulder, baring her collarbone and areas lower to his intense, unblinking gaze. 

His eyes peeled away from her bare skin to meet her own dark, seductive gaze, and he sucked a breath in through his masked nose. He was prepared to spring up from his chair when suddenly they were interrupted. 

The telephone, that strange new device tucked away on a little table, the thing Christine had already long forgotten about, rang. 

She jumped and screamed at the sudden loud and entirely unexpected noise, placing both hands over her own mouth in horror. 

Erik stared at her, dumbstruck and a little put off, as the telephone rang again. He cleared his throat and get up to answer it. 

“Hello?” he asked into the receiver, giving Christine another strange look. 

She stared right back at him, hands still on her mouth, eyes wide. She’d never heard such a racket before! What a horrible little machine! Erik, of course, was probably used to the clatter and cacophony of the thing, and probably thought her reaction very silly. Her face burned at how she’d reacted, but her heart was still pounding in her chest. 

“Okay, thank you,” he hung the phone up again and turned towards her. 

She straightened her shoulders and tried to pretend she hadn’t just been scared out of her wits. 

“Who was it?” she asked primly, acting as though phone calls were a very normal thing. 

“Bernard. Our meeting is canceled - the client accepted the changes without any fuss, so there’s no need for to go in today.”

He cocked his head to the side as he studied her. She had the day off as well, and though he was tempted to pick up where they had recently left off, he had another idea of how to spend the day.

“Christine,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go see our house.”


	35. Chapter 35

By the time they were pulling up to the house, Christine was buzzing with excitement. She kept peering out the window of the carriage, her face set determinedly, trying to catch a glimpse of it even though Erik kept telling her they weren’t close enough to be able to see it yet. 

When she was a small girl, she had dreamed of one day having a lavish flat of her own, four whole rooms. As a child, it had seemed an extravagant and gaudy hope, one unlikely to come true. 

Now she had house of her own, with eighteen rooms, and a husband to share it with. 

When the carriage rolled to a stop, she didn’t even wait for Erik for help her down, instead jumping out by herself. Her eyes bright and her breath fast, she stared past the little wrought iron fence around the property, past the still growing garden scape that lined the cobblestone pathway, up at the three-story house that had been built just for her. 

It was magnificent. 

She hardly noticed as Erik paid the driver, giving him instructions to wait an hour for them and then take them to the opera house. She certainly didn’t notice as he pulled the little glass bottle of his heart pills from his pocket, swallowing one as a precaution with his back turned to her to ensure she wouldn’t see. 

“What do you think?” he smiled as he turned to her at last. 

He had the slightest anxiety that perhaps the style wouldn’t be to her tastes, but those eased as soon as she looked up at him. 

“I scarcely have words, Erik,” she breathed. 

He chuckled, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. 

She reached a hand forward to open the gate, but he stopped her. 

“Christine, wait-“ he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let me carry you?”

“Oh!” 

He wanted to carry her over the threshold, just like in all the stories? She thought her heart might burst with love for this man. 

“Of course!” she held her arms out to him. 

He eagerly picked her up, an arm around her back and arm under her knees, hoisting her up and holding her close to his chest. He carried her in this fashion through the gate and up the walkway. 

“I had roses planted,” he said, just slightly out of breath as he nodded towards the bushes that lines their path. “But you can have something else planted if you wish.”

“I love roses,” she sighed, twisting to look at them without letting go of him. 

They were not yet in bloom. 

“What color?” she asked. 

“White,” he smiled. 

She said nothing, leaning her head against his neck and secretly smiling. 

She looked up again, though, as they neared the front door. There was a large marble triangle above the door - Christine recalled Erik had called this a pediment - and on this pediment there was a relief carving. As they got closer, she could see the design was that of a bird - a nightingale - and a rose. The birds wings were spread as though in flight, and the rose leaned towards him, as though drawn inexplicably towards her lover, and all around the edges of the pediment was a woven design of smaller roses and tiny wings - perhaps small nightingale wings, or perhaps little angel wings. 

The sight took her breath away, and in an instant she knew that Erik had carved this himself. 

He fished a key out of his breast pocket with some difficultly, but refused to set Christine down until after he had unlocked the door and carried her over the threshold of the house. Once inside, he set her carefully to the ground, then pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. 

“Welcome home, Christine Travers,” he murmured, and hugged her tightly. 

He had fantasized about living out this moment with her just as often as he had about having erotic moments with her. But while the joys of the flesh could be purchased if one paid enough, there was no sum of money that could buy this moment - to stand in his house with his wife who loved him as they were about to start their life together. While he had assumed there might have been the smallest possibility of enticing her to share his bed at some point, _this_ was the thing he truly thought could never happen - that she would share her life with him. 

And yet - here they were. 

He shed a tear or two as they stood there, the embrace lingering for a long moment. She pulled back a little after a moment and beamed up at him as though he were everything that was good in the world. 

“Welcome home, Erik.”

She took a step away from him and tugged on his hand. 

“Now come on! I want to see our house!” she grinned. 

She was already mostly familiar with the layout from looking at the blueprint, but it felt so different to look at it on paper than it did to walk through it. They walked through the entire thing, Erik pointing out key features here and there. He gave suggestions of what he thought should go where and how it should be furnished, as though he could direct how she decorated the house in the same fashion he had directed her career. 

He showed her his personal bedroom, and she noted that there were no windows in it. She narrowed her eyes at it, thinking that he would probably bring that awful coffin in here. He showed her her own private room which he promised would belong to her alone, and she was pleased with the large window with a generous view of the garden in the backyard. 

Her favorite room - and she had a feeling it was his too, despite his calculated nonchalance in how he presented it to her - was the shared bedroom. 

Respectable married couples had private bedrooms, such as he had built, and yet he’d also included this scandalous and presumptive room. It made her smile to think of it, every time. She wondered how often they’d actually use their private rooms, anyway. 

“You should always be allowed your privacy, my dear,” he fidgeted with his cravat as he explained. “And there will be times I wish to be alone as well... This room here is for... Well, you know- to _share_, of course... If you wish... To spend the night... With me.”

She watched with a wry grin as he tried to explain the obvious function of a shared bedroom and shook her head in wonder at the fact that this awkward stuttering was capable of coming from the same man who just this morning had looked to be a hair’s breadth away from having his way with her three times over. 

“And what’s this room again, Erik?” she asked innocently, trying to ignore her own pink cheeks over the bedroom affair and pointing to the room just across from her personal bedroom. 

Erik became quiet. 

“That is your room to do with as you wish,” he told her. 

“Oh? Like?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. 

“Anything. You could put books it, or vases of flowers... Or things you make.”

Things she made - well, that was a way of putting if it. 

She turned to him and hugged him. 

“The blueprint said _nursery_,” she reminded him gently. 

“It can be anything you wish it to be,” he insisted stiffly. 

“What if I wish it to be a nursery?” she murmured. 

He was a quiet a long moment. 

“I thought you wished to sing,” he said finally. 

“Well I already have a singing room, Erik!” she huffed. 

He pushed her back to look her in the eye, and she shyly met his gaze. 

“You named the room that,” she said in a small voice. “Doesn’t that mean you’d like it, too?”

“Some fantasies,” he said carefully. “Are better left as fantasies and not brought into being.”

She nodded, not wanting to push him. 

“Let’s go look at the garden?” she suggested, and the dark look left his face as his smile returned. 

“Of course.”

The garden was in its infancy, barely growing and recently planted. Still, everywhere she looked she saw the hidden potential for blooms and bushes and she couldn’t wait to tend to them, to nurture them, to watch them grow into something beautiful just like her relationship with Erik had. 

“You can hire a gardener, too, if you wish,” he told her. “And a housekeeper as well. I only ask that they keep their visits to less than once a week and are strictly punctual to avoid surprises.”

She spent the next handful of days feeling exhausted - exhausted, and over-the-moon with sheer joy. There were items to pack and secretly move from the underground house to the sun-lit house, Erik’s appointments to be kept with Bernard, Christine’s appointments to be kept with the stage, furniture being delivered to the new house, and even more furniture to be bought and placed. Through it all, they kept the room at the hotel as a sort of headquarters, at least until the new house was ready to move into. 

Even with so much else to focus on, she found Erik - and, to her own surprise, and a lesser degree, herself - still managed to be consumed entirely with yet another thing. 

Not even their task of moving seemed to deter him, so singly focused was he on this. While Christine tended to prefer saving such affections for until they reached the hotel, Erik had no such reservations, as she swiftly found out. 

To his credit, she thought wryly, at least he generally waited until they were alone. 

She liked to think that she knew how he felt - she was not unaffected his presence, certainly, she merely had better self control - but she also knew that while she had had a relationship with Raoul in the past, Erik had been entirely alone and also had lived many long years before she was even born. 

It was easy, surprisingly easy, to fall into the role of a married woman, but it was also easy to be surprised at how often Erik wished to remind her of this fact. 

It was the first trip underground that they had been able to make sense being wed. They had things to sort and pack, having to decide what to bring with them and what to leave in what they were jokingly calling their “work home”. She really had only intended a quick kiss to his cheek as she had leaned over him, finding the sight of him absorbed in his architectural files too precious. She had went on her way to finish disposing of the perishable foods that had rotted in the kitchen during their absence, but Erik had sprung up and followed her, turning her around and pulling her to him, kissing her on the mouth. 

“Erik!” she laughed, and wrinkled her nose, wiggling out of his grip. 

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, turning to walk to the kitchen while he followed closely behind, still holding her hand. 

“_Christine..._” he purred, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Shall we take this to your bedroom, my dear?”

She squirmed a little, embarrassed. 

“I’d rather not, not in there, at least...”

“Somewhere else?” he paused. 

“Anywhere else, honestly,” she leaned back against him. 

“Not in the only bed in the entire house?” he nuzzled against her neck. “Why ever not?”

Her cheeks turned red. 

“Because, Erik... It’s- it’s your _mother’s_ bed.”

“And?”

Her brow furrowed. 

“And?” she squeaked. 

“Well what’s that have to do with it?”

“I don’t want to- to think of her while we make love... It’s bad enough as it is!”

“What do you mean?” he tilted his head, curious. 

“You know what I mean, Erik,” her face was burning. “I- I look like her... Quite a lot. And to be in her bed... With you. Like _that_...”

Erik was quiet a moment, thinking. 

“Christine, I- forgive me, my dear, but I truly don’t see the issue.”

A look of faint horror passed over her face. 

“Erik!” she wiggled out of his arms, wrinkling her nose. 

“I didn’t say I was insisting on it, Christine,” he let her go, his voice a little pained. “I just wanted to understand your mind.”

She gave him a stern look, one she instantly regretted when she realized his own mother probably often gave him the same glare. She sighed, crossing her arms. 

“I won’t even go in the Louis-Philippe room if you don’t wish me to,” he offered gently, trying to make it up to her. 

He hesitantly approached her once more. Women could be so odd, really, full of strange thoughts he couldn’t understand at all. But he knew he didn’t have to understand Christine’s mind to respect her wishes, and if she didn’t want to do something he wasn’t going to press the issue. He stretched his arms out, inviting, offering, and she closed the distance between them. He pressed a kiss to the side of her cheek as he held her. 

“Anywhere but your room, my dear?” he asked, his breath tickling her neck. 

She nodded, her cheeks pink. 

“We could go in my own room perhaps...” he nuzzled his mask against her ear. “I think you’ll find the lining of my coffin much softer than you’re expecting.”

Christine jabbed her elbow into his ribs. 

“I am no longer in the mood,” she declared dryly. 

He let go of her and cleared his throat, sheepishly straightening his sleeves and his waistcoat. He tried to busy himself by helping her with sorting household objects, blessedly letting the subject drop. 

She almost never refused him, but she had noticed with great relief that he always listened to her when she did. 

Eventually he forgot his amorous intentions as he became absorbed in his task of preparing to move everything he needed for his work to the new house. It would have been an easier task, he supposed, if he had lived a more orderly life. Currently his papers and notes and design ideas were scattered about and squirreled away here and there. He gathered them all together from various areas of the house and brought them into his work room, where he intended on packing them all together. 

Christine had somehow found her way into the room, though what, exactly, she was doing in there he hadn’t a clue. He paused on his way to the room, pulling a rolled up paper out of a tall vase where it was hidden. 

“I love you Erik!” Christine said in a cutesy voice that floated out to him. 

Oh, was she talking to him? He smiled as he approached his work room, but his smile froze when he saw what she doing. 

“I love you Christine! Mmm, mmm, mmm!” she made little smacking noises with her lips. 

Sound effects, it appeared, for the little dolls she had found in the opera house model that he had _insisted_ was not a dollhouse - sound effects for the actions she was making them undertake. At the moment, she was pressing the faces of tiny Christine and tiny Erik together and making them vigorously kiss. A doll in each hand, she turned them this way and that, their mouths meeting again and again as she held the around the legs. 

“Christine?” his brow knit. “What the devil are you doing?”

“It’s okay, Erik!” she called out joyfully as she held the dolls up and pointed to their little wedding rings. “Look, they’re married, too!”

Erik stared, befuddled, as she made the dolls kiss again, and then turned and left after dropping all the papers in pile on the table, deciding to forget what he’d just seen. 

Moving was unfortunately a project that lasted longer than either one expected. Erik had offered to do most of the work himself, to allow her to focus more on her singing if she wished, but she had insisted on helping him pack and move various items from the underground. He was glad of her company, of course, thought he did feel that the work went slower with her stopping to ask him about the history of each item that caught her eye. 

“That’s from a museum in Italy, my dear.”

She looked at him curiously. 

“Well how did it end up in your house now, instead of the museum?”

He shrugged innocently. 

“I imagine it ended up in my house in quite the same manner it ended up in the museum, really.”

She sighed and placed the small statue back on its pedestal. There was still so much she didn’t know about this man who was now her husband, but she looked forward to discovering all of his secrets and stories. 

Well, almost all of them - it was the discovery in the closet that she thought she could have done without knowing. 

She’d passed by that little closet numerous times before - she’d even asked him once what was inside, why it was kept locked. 

“What’s in here, Erik?” she had asked. 

“Nothing at all, sweet girl,” he had put his arm around her shoulder and ushered her away from it. “Nothing important.”

But today the closet was unlocked, and she thought nothing of opening it up to see what was inside. 

Erik, who had been sitting on the floor and wrapping small breakables for transport, suddenly saw where she was going and hastily scrambled off the floor. 

“Christine,” he supplied with a hint of panic in his voice. “I’ve got that closet covered, you needn’t worry over it.”

She swung the door open. There were mannequins inside. That wasn’t so odd - she knew that he was quite good at sewing, that he both mended and altered his own clothing in addition to creating some of them. Of course he would need mannequins to hold the fabric in its proper shape. She pulled a few of them out, and in the back of the closet she came face to face with herself. 

She stared at it a long moment as she heard Erik grip the doorframe behind her. She dragged the Christine mannequin out into the light to get a better look at it. 

“That’s- that’s me,” she said evenly, but without understanding. 

She looked to Erik for an explanation, but he was merely staring at the two of them together, his mouth hanging open as though he himself was just as surprised to find the second Christine as the real Christine was. 

Erik felt like he was watching the scene from outside of himself. But perhaps he wasn’t too damned by the revelation - Christine was an innocent young woman, surely her pure mind would not take her to the places that Erik’s awful mind had gone - perhaps it wouldn’t even occur to her, those kinds of things that he thought about. 

She turned back to mannequin, chewing her lip and narrowing her eyes at it. It had a long, blonde wig, and carefully painted facial features. It wore a dress of light blue lace over white fabric. She realized with a flush that the dress would likely fit her - this Christine had been carved and molded to match its real-life counterpart with stunning accuracy. She frowned, wondering just how _accurate_ it really was. 

She bunched up the skirt in her hand and pulled it up around the mannequin’s waist. Erik turned away, speechless, his face bright red. She raised an eyebrow and breathed a little sigh of relief - it was just wire skeleton underneath. Although, she thought wryly, that didn’t necessarily mean it hadn’t been _used_ in other scenarios. The little doll of her had been flattering and adorable - _this_ felt a little different. 

“Erik what the devil do you have this thing for?”

“Dresses!” he choked out. “Dresses for _you_, Christine!”

He wrung his hands nervously. He hadn’t done anything bad with it... Well, he hadn’t done anything _very_ bad with it. And it really was for making dresses! That’s how it had started out, at least. 

“How long have you had it?” she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. 

“A few years,” he said distantly. 

She pressed her lips into a flat line and looked at him, at how his shoulders hunched and his brow looked sweaty and his hands pulled and twisted at each other. That was an awful lot of shame for just _dresses_. 

She left the mannequin propped against the wall, and made her way to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“Isn’t it much better to have me in your arms instead?” she asked. 

His own arms encircled her as he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“So much better,” he said on an exhale. 

He felt he could weep at how understanding and nonjudgmental his dear little wife was being. 

She stayed there in the embrace for a long moment, trying to fully wrap her head around the idea of what she had just found. 

At last she pulled back just slightly, just enough to look him in the eye and notice the guilt that lingered there. 

“I think we can leave her here, though, yes?” she arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, absolutely!” he quickly agreed. 

The mannequin was returned to the closet once more and locked away, out of sight yet not quite out of mind for a little while still. A woman is not apt to simply forget finding out that her teacher-turned-husband had been keeping an exact replica of her for years. But he was exceedingly embarrassed over it, so she had the prudence to not bring it up. 

At last moving and shopping and arranging was done, and they checked out of the hotel for good. It felt bittersweet, to her especially, to leave this place. They each took one last look at the room before they left it. 

This was were they’d gotten married, where they’d had such important conversations, where they’d enjoyed so many wonderful moments together, and it made her heart twist to leave it. 

“I hope whoever has this room next finds just as much happiness as we did,” she said wistfully. 

“I hope whoever has this room next cleans off the couch before sitting on it, considering what we did on it.”

“Erik!” she shrieked. 

They closed the door on the room, and a little while later they opened the door to their new house, and to a new chapter in their life together.


End file.
